


The White Hart of Winter

by DarkAthena (seraphim_grace)



Series: A/B/O bodice rippers [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accusations of Witchcraft, Alpha Derek Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Arranged Marriage, Dogs, M/M, Mpreg, NaNoWriMo, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Romance Novel, Scottish Romance, Wordcount: 50.000-100.000, kate is evil, no dogs were hurt in the making of this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-08-28 09:47:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 38
Words: 64,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8440930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphim_grace/pseuds/DarkAthena
Summary: Sent to marry the Hale Beast Stiles finds himself alone in a castle left to ruin and watched over by Kate Argent, who he thinks is sleeping with his new husband and seems determined to destroy him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay notes  
> this is set in Scotland around the year 1200! Ermengarde of Brittany was a real woman.
> 
> In this male and female omega wear the same style, a cotehardie (as a noble it has lots of godets) and a sleeveless surcoat over a linen shift.  
> So basically Stiles is dressed like Merida in Brave  
> he also has long hair (for reasons!)  
> Alphas wear a different style (houppeland) and betas wear tunics and hose, women wearing longer tunics etc
> 
> to make life easier i did a clothing masterpost  
> http://athenadark.tumblr.com/post/153127549178/white-hart-of-winter-clothing-masterpost
> 
> Omega are not allowed to join the church as they are seen as too valuable. They are still seen as a commodity but are educated (often beyond the levels of alphas - think high ranking church education) and as such are fought over.
> 
> Yes the king can marry someone in absentia

The omega sat on a small stool beside the fire, with the wool rug to his back as he played the great harp resting on his shoulder with clever fingers. He wore a blue cotehardie with a red surcoat, stitched in gold and his hair was bound in two heavy braids twisted into coils over each ear. His linen veil was tucked into the silver circlet he wore at the back of his head and draped under his lips and over his shoulders as was seemly.

His sleeves were buttoned from the elbow and gathered over his middle finger where he wore a ring, careful not to catch it on the strings. The queen sighed when she saw him, as she often did, for the vidame was beautiful and young and she did not care to pass on the message when he looked so peaceful.

At fifteen Stiles was on the verge of being a great beauty, he had a pleasing plumpness in his face and his skin was warm and although his hands were perhaps more built for deftness than softness he did not argue much with his nurse, Keziah, when she rubbed oil into his fingers to try and soften the calluses that he had from playing his harp. His eyes were the soft brown of warm oak and his loveliness had been the topic of more than one courtier’s wit.

When he saw Ermengarde, his queen, he smiled and it seemed to be with his whole body.

It broke her heart a little more.

“Stiles, we must talk, _pinson_.” She said, and swept her hand over her white surcoat, embroidered as it was with her husband’s arms. It was a familiar gesture and one that brought her peace, she imagined that she was breathing out her anxieties and sweeping them away from the expensive fabric.

Stiles always felt the cold so keenly and was so free with his affections. That would not remain so long. She would lose the sweet boy to her husband’s tempers, but this option, she took another deep breath, this was what was best. Jesu let it be, she prayed, let this be what was for the best.

“You only call me _pinson_ when you come to bring me bad news, my lady.” He said with a smile.

“And it is bad news that I bring you," the boy had been in her court since his birth, his mother had been one of her ladies, sent to her from Wroclaw that she might learn how to be a lady in Ermengarde’s father’s court in Brittany. Klavdiya had had a laugh like she knew a dirty secret that she shared with her son.

Ermengarde loved the boy as if he was her own, but he was not.

They called her husband the rough, and this was true.

“Stiles, the king has spoken and you are to be married.”

There was a complicated flash of emotions across Stiles’ face, finally settling on defiance. “He can't make me.” He said, clutching the harp tight enough his knuckles were white.

“Lamb,” Keziah said, “he can and he will.” She reached out and placed her embroidery down on her lap that she could rest her hand on his knee. “you knew this day would come.”

“You said you'd protect me," he said, and she could see his lip wobble. He was still a child, she thought, still so goddamn young, by the rood, she swore under her breath, she hated that her husband was making her do this. He should have told the boy himself. It was for the best, she repeated. It was for the best.

“Lamb,” Keziah repeated, “she is protecting you.”

Ermengarde swept her hands over her surcoat again. Her husband had explained his reasoning to her. He had made her understand but she didn't have to like it.

“Who?” he asked.

“The Lord of Hale." She said, it was for the best, she repeated.

“The Beast?” Stiles asked, “he is sending me to whore for his beast?”

Ermengarde imagined she could hear the wood of the harp's frame crack in his hands.

“Lord Argent has pressed his majesty that the beast be wed to his granddaughter Allison," she said, “after what happened with the Beast's sister and her marriage to Lady Katherine," she sucked a deep breath into her nose, holding it before she let it out, “Argent’s eyes linger on you. His majesty does not like Argent, he seeks to spite him. So he is denying him the marriage and denying him you.”

“I’m a pawn." Stiles said, “that’s all I can be.”

"No," Ermengarde said, “he is offering you a great opportunity. The Beast, Lord Hale, is young, he will want to get alphas to you, but _pinson_ , he is a man often at war. His lands are often invaded from the north, his keep will be yours and yours alone. You are not a pawn, you will be his vidame, and many omega do not get such a kindness.” She took a piece of linen from her surcoat and offered it to him. “Ultimately we are possessions, he has given you a husband who has little interest in you. It is the closest we can get, _ma pinson_ , to being free.”

“Free," Stiles scoffed, “like the hart in the forest, unaware that it is watched by the beast waiting to tear out its throat.” Ermengarde took the seat offered her by the fire. She felt old in that moment. Had she wept and raged when her father had announced who it was that she was marrying.

“I shall run off and join a convent," Stiles announced. He would certainly try, for such was his nature. He was wilful and wild. She had spoiled him, Ermengarde knew, but he was not wicked or cruel, he just knew his own mind. She had raised him like he was one of her alpha sons, not the omega bastard of one of her ladies.

“They would bring you straight back to your husband. You must rest easy, _leannan_ ," Keziah said, “it is not like you will travel there alone, and if the beast does raise his hand to you he is not so old or terrifying that your old nurse won’t box his ears for you.” Keziah's expression suggested that she might. The tales of the exploits of the Hale beast did not seem to dissuade her any. It was said that he had lived like an infidel in the Holy Land and that he was always between two dogs, the hounds of hell, and was as like as the were to rip the throats out of those who offended him, with his teeth. They said he didn't talk but merely grunted and would eat from the bowl like a dog.

Most of those tales, Stiles realised, came from Argent who had envied Hale his lands and port, and had been quick to adopt the Hale siblings after the terrible fire that had killed their parents. Laura had married Kate in secret, paying the fine for not asking the king, but died soon after, and now her brother was returned from the Holy Land, wild and mad, more animal than man, and he was to be Stiles’ lord.

It is for the best, Ermengarde repeated to herself, it is for the best.


	2. Chapter 2

The omega was bound, with cord tight about his arms, blindfolded and gagged when he was summarily dumped on the floor in such a way that his legs sprawled out from under him giving Parrish a flash of a very shapely ankle.

Being his lord's man he reacted responsibly, removing his mantle from his shoulders and draping it over his lord's young bride in order to preserve his dignity.

Well, as much dignity as he could maintain bound and blindfolded in what appeared to be a nun's dress, with his hair half falling from his braids.

The king took a deep sigh, “why is he bound?” he asked, “he is to be married, isn't that a joyous occasion?”

The knight who had carried the omega over his shoulder, whilst the boy screamed against his gag and kicked at the knight took a moment before he answered. “We caught him, not taking the time to dress as we were led to believe, but instead trying to escape from his opened casement using his blanket as a rope,” he paused, not so much for drama but trying to find the words that would cause him not to be whipped for the impertinence. “When we brought him in he bit my squire, kicked one of his maids in the face and then tried to stab me. I can honestly say, majesty, that I do not believe him to be overjoyed at the concept of nuptials.”

Parrish could not help but smile to himself. When word had reached the Hale manor in the north that the Scottish king had decided that their lord was to marry they imagined it would be some milk fed sop of a thing, unsuited to the cold or with little passion or drive. Parrish, himself had pictured a small pale girl with a whispery voice who would not meet their eyes.

Instead, the omega in question was trying to gnaw his way through what appeared to be a leather belt shoved in his mouth, wriggle free of his bonds and kick anyone who came too close.

The pale, bloodless, and quite imaginary, omega, would not have survived a winter in the cold harsh north of the Hale lands, this boy would go out screaming and kicking and would thrive. Unfortunately blindfolded and bound like he was Parrish could tell little more about him than he had dark hair and a rather pretty ankle. Although right now he looked like a horse’s tail hanging over a pile of fabric.

“And why is he blindfolded?” the king asked.

“A precaution, sire," the knight said, “he, in his ire, called upon the devil that he would rather marry him than the Hale lord, we thought it best not to take chances.”

The bishop sighed.

“And to think," the king said, “a week ago you were praising the sweetness and quiet nature of this same hellcat.” He told his knight.

“My lord will be better pleased by a hellcat, majesty, the lands of Hale are harsh and if he were not a Hellcat he would not do well amongst them.” Parrish said. He had learned his manners well, which is why he was the one sent to Edinburgh although it was Hale to be married with the nature of his lands he could not be spared. So the king had agreed that when he was to be summoned that Parrish would stand in his stead. It allowed Parrish to read and sign contracts in his place, negotiate trades for his lord was quick to anger, with little patience for the fake pleasantries. It would not do for the entire manor to lose trade with one of the further lords or earls, or even their lairds, because Hale had skewered the offending gentleman for saying something intended as humour.

Had he been here, seeing the omega intended as his, bound and blindfolded, dumped on the floor in a way that would have bruised, the knight would have been challenged at best, but most likely killed for the presumption.

That would have meant that the king would have been offended at best, most likely angered, the manor, which had no money, would have been levied for the cost of a knight's training, and the omega would be terrified at the idea of marrying him.

Those years in the Holy Land had done nothing to soften the edges of Hale, which was one of the things they hoped for with the boy.

“Vidame," Parrish said, crouching down, “if I undo your bounds will you try to run?” The boy tried to spit something out through the belt around his mouth. “If I undo your gag will you try to bite me?” The boy waited until Parrish’s fingers were at the belt before he lurched forward trying to snap, even through the belt.

He stood up then if the boy wouldn't behave he would not humour him.

“To think, Argent," one of the gentlemen said, “you wanted to stick your knot in that.”

Parrish whirled on the man, “speak such again and I shall give pay to the rumours about my lord, I shall make him seem a milksop in comparison for such insult against my Laird,” the boy seemed to still, tilting his head as if in thought, “any word spoken against my Lord's bride will be taken as insult to my lord, and insult to my lord will not be tolerated.”

“A spitting hellcat for the Hale." The king said with a laugh, “is that not most fitting?”

Parrish put his hand on his belt knife, “I stand for my lord in this, as in all things.”

“Will you take his place in his marriage bed?” Argent asked with a sneer.

“Are you offering, my lord?” Parrish said with a cold smile, “I know I am a mere knight, but my Lord trusts me in all things, including preserving the virtue of his bride. What, majesty, is the punishment for those who demand _jus primae noctis_ within your kingdom?”

The king had a wicked smile when he answered, “For an omega, death.” He stopped, "I strip the lord in question of their lands and hang them as a common thief, for all omega in the land are mine by right to decide whom they marry at my discretion. Those who are sent blemished to a marriage bed are worth less than those who are pure. And a lord whose earl, or such,” Argent was an earl, “takes that from his men takes that from me. I do not like to lose things. So I treat them like any other common thief, branded and hung at a roadside for the crows.”

The boy seemed to ease, stopping his fight against his bonds. “I am here," Parrish said, “to stand as my lord before god and king to accept this marriage, whilst my lord defends his king’s borders against those last invaders of the year. With the raids these past months he could not be spared, will my king accept that I might stand in his place?”

“After what happened the last time Hale was in court," someone snickered at the back of the room, “it is probably for the best.”

“Were you the one who lost the fingers.” Parrish asked with a smile, “for suggesting that he had lain with his sister?”

The king brayed out a laugh, “would that all my knights were as loyal," he said clapping Parrish on the back, “your loyalty speaks well of your lord. I shall accept that you stand in the place of your lord, shall we get this wedding done with then, bishop," he addressed the churchman, “I have things to do today, let's get this over with.”

 

The marriage was perfunctory, with the omega, Stiles, bound and blindfolded, the king as the omega’s guardian listed the benefits that the boy brings to the marriage, which was mostly in livestock, mostly goats and sheep to be delivered come spring, several bags of grain well suited to the harsh north that will travel with them on their journey, one fine bedstead, complete with hangings, five straw beds, two flock beds, one down bed, ten bolts of broadcloth and other ceramics and things used in the maintenance of a manor.

It was not a great dower by any imagination, more than Parrish expected and there were things there that are clearly the gift of the queen, the bedstead for example. The beds at the Hale manor were straw that is beaten once a week and threaded through with lady straw and heather to keep the bugs down, but it was clear the flock beds, mattresses made of woven fleece, and down were for boy himself, to decorate the fine bed she gave him.

It will be wasted on his lord, Parrish thought, but accepted them gracefully. He paid the coins his lord gave him for the marriage in exchange.

A boy such as this, raised in the court in Edinburgh should have had a fine wedding breakfast, he should have spent the day in celebration with a cotehardie made of silk and wool, and an embroidered _pellote_ so fine he might outshine the queen herself. Instead he was wearing a nun's dress, obviously his plan was to join a convent, perhaps hiding himself as an omega, and ropes, covered with Parrish’s cloak so he did not display more of his legs than he absolutely had to.

It did him credit that the boy was still struggling and fighting even as everything happened around him.

 

After the wedding when the boy's finger was dipped in ink to secure the contract, as he was a ward of the king, and then Parrish tried to help him to stand. “If I unbind you, vidame, do you promise not to bite? I do not wish to have to take a cane to you, but I will.”

He stood up and walked around the boy to unbind his hands, then removing the ropes from around his chest, before he undid the blindfold as the boy struggled with the belt in his mouth. “You are not my husband,” the boy spat out the words, “I do not have to obey you.”

The king barked out a laugh as Parrish started to guide the omega, barefoot apart from his stockings, and Parrish’s cloak pulled tightly about him against the encroaching winter chill.

“No, but I am the one person here who has the power to punish you. I do not wish to, but I will if you push me to it. My place is to serve my lord, my lord wishes you to be pleased and it is my favour to do so, but if you will not accept my kindness and attempt to bite or stab me," he looked at the two knights who had carried the boy down the stairs, "I will take a cane to that ass of yours and it will make your journey in the wagon to the Hale lands much more unpleasant.”

The boy was lovely, Parrish noticed, young and still plump with childhood rounding his limbs, but old enough to marry, with large golden eyes with dark lashes and long dark brown hair. “Your maid is accompanying you, I assume?”

Something in what Parrish had said eased the boy's temper, he saw it. The boy had not yet learned to his expressions from his entire manner. His lord, who was poor at gauging people’s meaning, would appreciate that.

“I had not thought," he started, “I was told,”

“Vidame," Parrish said, “if you wish it my lord will make it so. If it will give you ease then your maid might accompany you, my lord is not without means, those means are now at your disposal.”

The boy put his hand out and placed it on Parrish’s arm. “I would like to dress," he said, and his voice was deeper than Parrish expected. He had a soft mouth but it would be his temper that would do him best in the north.

“By your command, my lord's gifts to you have been placed in the room that the king has put aside for your wedding night, I shall, of course, spend the night outside the door to prevent those who seek to pressure you." His eyes flicked over to Argent, stood talking to one of his men by the fire.

The flags of the lords hung from pennants along the walls, with no breeze to stir them, the boy seemed so small, despite standing as tall as Parrish, as he left the room, a fat woman with full coif and veil, held in place by braided cloth, and a simple woolen surcoat chasing him.

It would be an interesting marriage, Parrish thought, as he followed behind them, slowly, letting them know he was there to protect them and to prevent the boy escaping out of another window, but also letting the other lords know that the Hale beast was, despite his absence, taking his marriage seriously.


	3. Chapter 3

Parrish went up the stairs first with Liam trailing behind him, where Parrish held the coffer of his lord's gifts to his new mari, and Liam had a tray of food for him.

There was one of his own guards on the door, to whom he nodded as he knocked and entered. His new lord sat by the fire, dressed now as befitted his station as lord, in a fine wool and linen blended cotehardie and silk trimmed pellote, he was veiled and his hair styled correctly in twin braids at each ear with a woven band around his forehead.

He was playing the harp, with a fur draped over his knees to ward against the growing chill of the encroaching winter. Like that he was beautiful, but there was still the flash of rage in his eyes and his mouth, full as it was, was pulled tight and the music in his hands ended with a clang.

“I tried to tell the man outside that I did not wish to be disturbed.” The boy said.

"I am sorry to disturb your solitude, my lord," Parrish said with a low bow to the head, “I thought you might be hungry, you did not come down with your guard to supper. The king threw a feast in your honour.”

“There was roast fowl," Liam said, “it was stuffed with currants, the cooks were lucky to save you some.” He grinned, “I nearly ate it when I carried it up here." He put the tray on the table, “it was really good. I didn't want to let them wash my hands so I didn't waste the gravy.” 

“Who are you?” The omega said, his fingers were still on the strings of his harp.

“This is Liam, my lord, I apologise for his informality, he is my squire and still has much to learn." He flicked his eyes to Liam, “whilst we are here he will be your squire, to aid you in what it is that you need his help in, whether that is bringing you your meal,” he gestured to the covered tray that the boy had put on the table, “or carry your piss pot.” Liam looked like he was about to object, “and he will treat you as you deserve to be treated as the mari of our lord.”

“Will he call me the beast's bitch as the man outside my door did?” The omega asked.

Parrish tightened his hand on his dagger. “Liam," he said in a quiet voice, “accompany that man to the stables and Boyd, tell Boyd what it was that he has said and who it was that bears witness against him. I recommend a minimum of fifteen lashes, but he is to use his discretion.”

Liam bowed his head and scurried out of the room. “Is it to your will, my lord?” Parrish said, and then finally put his coffer upon the table next to the platter. “Come, eat before it grows too cold," he said uncovering the platter. There was a full grouse, stuffed with raisins and breadcrumbs, and a bowl of boiled barley with shaved hard cheese that had been melted on the top. There was even fine white bread, with the base cut off so there was no soot from the ovens.

The omega’s stomach grumbled at the smell. “Is this enough?” Parrish asked, “I can fetch you more if you wish,” he bowed his head again.

“That man served you, why did you send him for a lashing?” The omega asked, pushing his harp to the side, and then resting it against the wall, so that he could eat.

“Because he serves you as well,” Parrish told him, “and if he serves you by calling you such a thing then a verbal correction will not be enough. Boyd will almost surely remove the man from your service as well. My lord is many things, but he is loyal unto death to those who cleave to him, and in his absence, t falls to me to defend his name, and that includes you.”

The boy snatched up the plate of food like it might be taken away from him at any moment. It was served, as it should be for a premier lord of the realm, on metal plates with a silver spoon. The reputation of the Hale Beast was as fearsome as the man himself so the castle servants scurried to obey him for fear of what he might do if they displeased him.

“Have you eaten?” the boy asked, remembering at the last moment his manners.

“Yes, my lord," Parrish said, “but I thank you for thinking of me.”

He took one of the stools from against the wall and sat down on it, “do you mind if I keep you company?”

“I think if I complain I might be sent to the stables for a lashing.” The boy talked around a bite of the roast bird, half covering his mouth with his covered wrist, the one holding the knife, Parrish noted. Parrish knew he wouldn't be so diligent in taking the cutlery back from his new lord. If the knife made the boy feel safe he could keep it.

“There are things we say in public that are more important that they are said than enforced. Had you bitten me in the great hall in front of the king there was an expectation that you would be punished.” Parrish said it calmly, he had an open expression of wide-eyed innocence and was much younger than many of the knights at court, handsome in a youthful plain way but with nothing remarkably striking about him. His features were not as striking as some, and he was boyish with fine teeth, he proudly displayed his alpha ears and his Hale colours.

“So you threatened to strike me because you would have lost face not to?” The boy asked.

Parrish bowed his head in acknowledgement. “It is well that you are quick witted, the land and people in the north are hard, but hardness does not mean cruelty. Those at court are often much crueller than we.”

“A mask?” the boy asked, this time stuffing the barley into his mouth, he was hovering over the tray like he expected it to be taken from him at any moment. It was likely since they had announced the marriage to him and he had started his escape attempts that he hadn't had the same access to food.

“A political necessity, and one that my lord lacks," he said, “those who know him find him brutally honest, but quick to anger.” The boy frowned. “He will be good to you.”

"Or will you take him out back and give him a lashing in the stables?" There was an impishness to what the boy said.

“Oh no, you must think of it this way, they call my lord the beast, and if he is not a wild animal will he not treat his bride the way that the beasts of the forest do? If he is to be the Lord of Hale manor and you his mari, then is it not likely that he will treat you with the same respect and kindness." The boy chewed slowly thinking it over. “You will not be his broodmare, like a beast of the field, but his equal like a beast of the forest.” The boy swallowed, and picked up more of the roast meat on his knife point as if thinking, then swallowed the words, pushing them down with the meat.

“And you stand here to take his place," he said once he had chewed and swallowed, “to be his proxy in all things, does that include his marriage bed?”

Parrish leant forward and leered, “if I tried it," he said, making sure to sound seductive, “even if you welcomed me, he would rip out my throat with his teeth.”

The boy swallowed.

 

Once he had finished his meal and washed his hands in the rose and lemon water that was beside the bowls, wiping them dry on the linen, and finishing the cup of small beer he had been given he turned his attention to the coffer on the sideboard.

“What is in the box?”

“Gifts, my lord," Parrish said, “shall I bring them to you?”

“Gifts?” the boy asked, “does he seek to buy my favour?”

“I think he means to court you. He asked his sister by marriage what would be appropriate for a new bride, if you find fault with them then let it be with her," there was something in the way Parrish said it that suggested a dislike for the woman, “although I think they are as fine as they are for she believed it was to be her that he would wed.”

“What is she like?” The boy asked as he opened the box, the leather hinges creaking as he did so.

“I am not one to carry tales," Parrish said. “She was Lady Laura's wife," he used the word to make it clear that this sister was a beta. He was determined to change the subject, “do you like those things my lord offers you?”

There was a ball, the metal full of brass cutwork so it looked like it was made of lace, held on a chain and the boy lifted it, noticing the tiny catch that held the two half together, opening it he found that metal bars from the outer case held aloft a small bowl into which small holes had been bored. It was clear that the outer ball was designed to be held in either hand or suspended from a piece of rope, for there was a loop at the top. “What is this," the boy asked, “a thurible?”

“No, a handwarmer.” Parrish said, “an ember is placed here," he touched the inner bowl, “and it is closed and it does not grow so hot as to burn the hands. It is cold in the north and it is common knowledge that omegas feel the cold most keenly. He thought you might have use of it in your journey.”

The boy put the ball back down. There was a curl of twisted metal at the end of which was certainly no thicker than a rush but was finely worked gold, and there were two balls at either end, each one was a finely carved wolf, curled in on itself like it was sleeping. “That is a torc," Parrish told him, “it is customary that one is fashioned for a new bride, my lord had that made in Constantinople when he was victorious, he has planned to take a bride although he had not thought to be the Lord in his sister’s stead.”

"It's beautiful.” For the first time he lost some of the anger from his mien, “shall I put it on? it looks a little big for my arm.”

“It's worn around the throat. My lord would be massively displeased if I took the liberty of touching you to put it on, but I can show you how. I can put it on Liam.”

“Would he take that as a proposal?” There was a smile there.

“We have done much worse in his service,” Parrish answered.

There was a ring, that was too fine and small to be worn on any of his fingers but the smallest one and he quickly shoved it on there. It was designed to look like a crown. “I shall visit the jeweller to have it resized.” The boy said, “it won’t be the work of a moment for him.”

“We shall leave in the early morning. When Liam returns I shall send him to do it for you. The Hale name will open many doors.”

“And now I am Hale." The boy said.

“You are my lord, to command me as if you were your husband. Might I have permission to address you by your given name? As my lord,” he left it open for the boy to fill in the gap.

“My given name is a mouthful," the boy said, running his fingers through the white fox fur on which the gifts had lain, “I am called Saint Yseult’s Miracle. My nurse called me Stiles and it is how I am most often called. When we are in private you may call me such.”

“Vidame," Parrish corrected, “even in private I will not, that is a pleasure only for my lord, I just wished permission that I could call you Lord Saint Yseult’s Miracle, not the intimacy of simply using your name. You are right, however, it is quite a mouthful. I shall call you Lord Hale as is your due.”

Stiles tugged off his ring and handed it to Parrish, “to get resized,” he said. He went back to his stool and pulled his harp back against his shoulder, the stock of it on the stool in front of him, which he hooked a slippered foot behind to stop it moving. There was a piece of rag linen underneath it to protect the base of it and give it more grip.

His fingers were deft and quick as he started to play.

Liam fell into the room, panting with something in his hands. “Parrish," he said, “my lord," he doffed what looked like a curtsey, “we forgot these." He held aloft a grey bundle, “I forgot these, I was supposed to," he offered them out to Parrish who took them, shaking his head.

“My squire has much to learn." He said finally. “My lord," he shook out the bundles to reveal a pair of felted wool boots and a heavy grey wool cape with hood, “to keep you warm in your journey.”

“Are those Russian wool boots?” Stiles asked, putting down his harp again, “oh gimme," he said, and standing up he tugged up his skirts, “my feet are freezing.”

Liam burst out laughing.

He stuck out his feet from under his skirts to reveal a soft knitted stocking and the delicate ankle, Liam looked across to Parrish who nodded before he let Stiles rest his foot on his bended knee and slipped the boots on him.


	4. Chapter 4

After a poor night's sleep, with Liam sleeping curled by the fire and Parrish on a stool outside his door, which did nothing to help Stiles’ slumber, he rose early, allowed Keziah, who had shared his bed, to help him wash and dress in a fresh linen shirt that had hung over the fire, and a second pair of broad cloth hose over the finely knit ones he had worn to bed. He had gleefully pulled on the woollen boots that Parrish had given him, and then to protect them from the morning’s dew, had allowed Keziah to tie a large pair of leather shoes over them.

Instead of a surcoat, he wore a _giornea_ made of broadcloth woven with a pattern, and over that he had pulled on the cloak that had been part of his marriage gifts, and had, over his veil, a peasant's knit cap to keep his head warm.

"It’s not that cold," Liam had said with a laugh.

“Yes," Stiles corrected him, “it is, and it's going to get colder, you’ll be alright, you’ll be riding, I’ll be tucked up in the wagon freezing my ears off.”

His maid, although dressed warmly did not go to such an extent, simply wearing a woolen gown over her kirtle, and a cape pulled around her shoulders, she had a woolen statute cap pulled over her veil, and when she saw her young lord, she shook her head and draped his fox fur around his neck to try and keep the heat in.

“He feels the cold terribly," she told Liam, “and complains worse.”

The carriage for Stiles to travel in was a wooden box with some holes in the top to let light through, there was a stout wooden bench that was deep enough to lie on, if he lay on his side, which was heaped high with blankets. A large sack of roving was leaning against the bench, there was a thick rug on the floor of it. The bench was placed so the light, such as it was, fell on it. From the _pochet_ in his gown, as he settled himself into the nest of blankets and furs, he pulled a _falsadh_ spinning top.

It would take ten days to travel from Edinburgh to the Hale lands and the manor of _Dubhfaolain_ and it was clear that he would need something to pass the time with.

—-

The first night Stiles was bedded down in the wagon with the Hale knights, all five of them, around him, with Keziah and Liam tucked up beside him under the pile of blankets whilst he grumbled about the cold. They had shared a supper of hot beef stew and hot wine spiced with mace, although the knights had small beer. Stiles had requested from Parrish that he be allowed to ride, even offering that they and some other knights leave the train and let the wagons follow, and they ride ahead because a four-day journey was much preferable to one that lasted ten days with the wagons.

Parrish told him to enjoy the journey.

The landscape got more bleak as they moved from the lands around Edinburgh to the crofts of the Highlands, everything painted with a sort of heather coloured haze, and the water seemed crisper, colder and fresher as the air got almost brittle with cold.

On the eighth day, it snowed and Stiles, who had switched to a pair of knee breeches under his skirts, and a heavy knitted sweater over his pelotte and under his giornea and cloak. “I hate travelling," he confessed, “and travelling in winter is worse.” That was the day he confessed that he and Keziah had finished the bag of roving that they had brought to spin, and it was too cold for his hands to practice his harp, and he was terrible, chronically bored.

On the tenth day, knowing that they would arrive in mid afternoon to early evening Parrish allowed him to ride on a mare that seemed that it had eaten something that removed from it all the cares in the world. He still looked like a bundle of cloth, but he was one who had passed over his cotehardie and pellote that he could ride astride. Like that, he could have passed for a handsome young beta labourer, except for the glint of his _torc_ at his collar.

The Hale manor was an old roman fort that over the years people had built around and unto so although part of it was built in limestone the vast majority was of local granite mortared into place to create a tall square tower that overlooked a squat building like a _taighean dubha_ , but at right angles were other buildings like stables made of wood and daub, with thatched rooves and it was surrounded on all sides by high granite walls and a moat, but just beyond it, framing it like a line barely visible as the light fell, was the sea.

Outside it on the road was a small village which existed to maintain the keep, but Stiles got the impression, just from looking at it, that the village was better kept than the fort. The thatch was old and clearly needed to be replaced, it was threadbare in places. On the _dubha_ the slate tiles were slipped and there were holes in some of the outbuildings. He had guessed that the Hale manor was rich, with its role protecting the sea trade of the far north he had thought it would be, but the house did not look well kept.

“Welcome home, my lord," Parrish said from beside his new lord. “Well come to _Dubhfaolain._ ”

Stiles took a breath and went to say something several times before he stopped completely letting his mouth close with a snap.

—-

Parrish watched Stiles’ reaction to entering the manor quite carefully. He looked around at the dirty walls, and the worn rushes on the floor. There were servants carrying trays to and from the main hall, but they were few, and the fire was loaded with smoky green wood. Parrish walked him to the table but before he sat down Stiles turned to the man on the stool next to him. “Can you take my cloak and hang it by the fire. It started to rain as we approached the gate and I would not have it ruined.”

“Who do you think you are talking to?” The man asked, "I am his lordship’s Wardrober I do not act the servant for some squire.”

Parrish snapped his foot down hard, “Harris," he said, “this is my lord." He said, with his hand on the hilt of his sword he glared at the man. “Take his cloak." There was steel in his voice.

"I am the wardrober of this manor," Harris said standing up, “I am not some lowly servant to be sent with menial tasks, I have served my lord faithfully and his sister and his mother before her. I am not some scullery lad who will just obey.”

“You will do as he wishes.” Parrish repeated, “this is the bride of Lord Theoderic, he has left quite specific instructions on how he was to be treated, and yet before he has had a chance to sit you have called him a squire and refused to perform a simple task.”

“And what proof have you that this is the new bride, dressed in heretical clothes like a beta?” Harris asked. He was a tall man with dark hair, cleanly cut, and shaven like a southern lord, he was dressed in a clean dark green doublet and breeches, with leather shoes tied over his feet instead of boots, and he had a hood over his shoulders but falling loosely down his back.

“My lord,” Parrish said and an uneasy silence fell over the knights and labourers at the table. Stiles tugged down his collar to reveal the _torc_ that hung around his neck. “Even Saint Peter admitted that at times an omega might wear breeches if he needed to ride. My lord has arrived and he is to be obeyed, by the will of his husband, as if he was his husband.”

Stiles looked Harris clear in the eyes. “Hang up my cloak." He said, “Or for the next three days and nights you will have nothing to eat but bread and water.” If he wavered, even for a moment in this, they would not take him seriously at all. Harris took the cloak, “I am the person your lord has married," Stiles said, “and I will brook no disobedience. I ask nothing of you that I will not offer. You, what is your name?”

“Heather," the girl said, with a doffed curtsey, “how may I help, my lord?” she was clearly determined that she was not to be punished for disobedience like Harris had been.

“In the wagons, I arrived with are a bedstead that was given as a marriage gift from my lady the queen. Have it set up in my husband’s room, with the two flock mattresses under the sheet and the down one above. The straw mattresses are to be given to the steward and the cook, as sleep will do most to help them in our joined endeavors.” He took a breath before he continued. “I am tired from my journey but come the morning we shall do our best to restore this manor.”

“Lady Katherine will not like this," Harris muttered.

“Lady Katherine may like what she will," Stiles answered, “she is not the mari of my lord, I am, and it is my displeasure that you should fear, not hers.”

“You are just a mewling child," Harris sneered, “you know nothing of Dubhfaolain."

"Parrish, good knight," Stiles said in a calm voice, “make sure the kitchens are made aware that for the next ten days that Wardrober Harris is to have nothing but bread and water, and if he opens his mouth to complain once more he is to be whipped, one lash for every word he has spoken since I have arrived in Dubhfaolain. Do I make myself clear, Wardrober Harris?”

With a sneer, Harris agreed that he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm using a lot of technical terms, but if you have questions (mostly it's not a big deal like different types of clothes etc)  
> it'll settle
> 
> the Hale manor is called Dubhfaolain or black wolf!  
> yeah that's the level of humour going here


	5. Chapter 5

After an unsatisfying meal of sour bread and grainy pottage with nowhere near enough meat, after the fine food that he had had on his journey, Stiles took the opportunity to have a hot bath.

He did not think he stunk of horse, although he knew he probably did, but his muscles ached from the day's ride and after nine days tucked up in the wagon, even as well set up as it had been for his comfort, he ached.

The bath house was in slightly better repair than most of the manor, in that the roof didn't leak and the walls were solid granite and thus, unlike the wattle and daub walls of other buildings weren't in desperate need of replacing.

There was a large wooden tub beside a fireplace and although the water was clearly no deeper than his knees it was possible to fill it deep enough for him to sit in with his knees to his chest as Keziah helped him bathe and washed his hair, using a little piece of soap. He did his best not to have to wash his hair more than once a month, sitting through Keziah combing his hair with one hundred strokes and keeping it bound and covered from the winter air.

Bathing in winter was unhealthy but Stiles enjoyed the luxury of it. Once he was dried, skin polished by rough linen until it was dry and then he stood in front of the fire, eager to get back into his clothes, a warmed linen shift, then a wool cotehardie and pellote, with wool stockings and his woolen boots, and knitted gauntlets on his wrists. With his hair wet it was twisted in linen and pinned shut so that the linen fell down his back. If he had it braided it might take days to dry and so he planned to go to bed with it wet, if it didn't dry by the fire after he went to his chamber for the night.

So he was dressed as he should be for the lord's mari when he went back into the main hall.

No longer hungry and warm, dressed appropriately he felt more secure in his role as the new lord of the manor. Sat to the right of the lord’s chair at the centre of the main table was a woman in a dark blue dress.

This, Stiles reasoned, must be the Lady Katherine.

She was a handsome woman, her features a little too sharp for courtly beauty, but she was fair. She had large green eyes and a wide mouth, but the tip of her nose was strange - like it had been reshaped of clay, and she wore her blonde hair in two braids either side of her face so they fell down to emphasise her breasts in her cotehardie.

Her dress was as fine as Stiles' own, far too fine for such a place, but she was both Laura’s widow and would have personal wealth from that, and Gerard Argent's only daughter so it was likely she would have an allowance, but still, stuck here in the wilds of Scotland at _Dubhfaolain_ she was dressed like she was meeting with the queen, and it was quite scandalous that she was wearing her hair uncovered like an unmarried maiden. The band that she wore, that should have held her veil in place, was silver and set with semi-precious stones and around her shoulders, like a lord’s chain, was a chain of semi-precious stones. Even her girdle, barely visible where she was sat, was very rich and expensive.

It made the casual ruin of the entire manor even more pronounced in comparison.

Stiles immediately decided he didn't like her, but he could not have said specifically why it was that he did not.

“Brother," she said standing up and she had a husky voice, she spread her arms to show the line of buttons at her cuffs, instead of the laces that were common. It was another show of wealth, “come sit with me, I am sure we will become fast friends.”

“You must be Katherine," he said, “I feel, newly come to the manor as I am, that I should welcome you, to make sure that you know that I am aware of your position as the ward of my new husband.”

“Derek,” Kate said with a mocking smile, “he’s such a dear thing when the mood takes him, why he's like a lapdog when you know how to treat him.” She sat back down in the chair that was, by right's Stiles own as the new bride of the lord of the manor. It had been Kate’s when Laura lived but it was not hers any longer. Stiles briefly wondered if it was crass to point it out and then decided that he didn't care. “Of course you will join me in the women's chambers, they are right above this hall so the heat travels upwards.”

Stiles smiled, “No," he said, “I will spend the night in my husband’s chamber, as is my duty. I do not know when it is that he will return from securing our shores, but it is my duty to wait upon him. If he wishes to return late at night in the middle of a storm then it will be in the knowledge that I am waiting for him in his bed.”

“Oh yes," Kate said, “I had heard that you brought your own bed with you, in which room have you had it set up, I know Derek is most protective of where he sleeps. He does it with the dogs, you know, so have had you had the room that adjoins his?”

“His knights made it most clear to me that I would wait for him in his chamber." Stiles tried to say it artlessly but he wanted to hurt this woman and he took some pleasure in her flinch.

"I would not have him punish you, why your skin is as fine as that of a milk maid, a whipping would quite ruin it.” She said making it sound like it would be regretful. Stiles knew her type, there were plenty of them at the royal court. Women who used their beauty to try to get into a position of power, and would happily destroy anyone who threatened that position.

“Then it is a conversation we shall have when he returns, besides, dearest sister," he smiled at her, “I am an omega and it is well known that we are so sensitive that simply lying on a pea on a pile of flock beds we can feel it.”

“My maid was here for your entrance, she did wonder why it was that you kept the best beds for yourself.” She reached across and lifted a cup of wine, taking a mouthful before she continued. “Are you so sensitive or is it rather unchristian greed?”

“It was a gift from her majesty, a gesture in response to my own service in her court, to dispense as I see fit. Tell me, sister, should I share my marriage bed with the knights, Parrish has been most kind, shall I have one of the flock beds taken from the bed I am to share with my husband and give it to him.”

Kate’s lips thinned. “Dearest brother," she said, “you are quite amusing, I can see why the queen was so loath to let you leave her service. It will be wasted upon your new husband,” she said, “his hands are so rough, and his hungers so beastly, why those new beds will be quite ruined. I am sure that fine maid of yours knows how to treat scars.”

“Why do you need her help?” Stiles answered, pouring himself a cup of small beer, leaving her the wine. He imagined it was as sour and vinegary as the bread had been. “It is well known that wine sours both the stomach and the complexion, I already see the foxing of veins in your nose and cheeks.”

Kate gritted her teeth. “Derek will not be long amused with your youth and beauty.” She said, “and then you shall be asking me for such tricks to keep him amused, it has been two long years here, just he and I?”

“I had wondered why they called him the Beast, you know, but if he has such voracious appetites I can understand that," he took a sip of his beer, “I shall have to match them. For after all is it not part of my duties to see him well satisfied. I will have to make changes, of course, for one thing, I hate to belabour the point, dear sister, but you are no longer Lady of _Dubhfaolain_. I understand that you are still in mourning, and as such, they have offered you kindnesses, but you are in my seat." He made sure there was firmness in his tone for the last words.

"I shall, of course, let it slide this time, but I do not wish to see it repeated. To err is human after all.”

“You would do well to learn your place, omega," Kate said, finally showing her true nature without the saccharine sweetness that she pretended to. Kate was more like her father than she wanted people to think.

“Of course, any advice you have for me that I might make the best home for my husband that I can I will gladly accept.” Stiles said, “after all, we are family now.”

And Kate was left speechless, after all, there was nothing she could say surrounded as they were by the servants and knights of the manor that had been left to its defence.

Stiles yawned, covering his mouth. "Oh, I will need the keys,” he said, “if you can leave them with the steward that I might take them tomorrow. I am quite worn out from my journey, I am quite looking forward to my warm new bed and the fire beside it. Shall I see you at breakfast?”

“I was under the impression that you would break your fast in your chamber," Kate said.

"Oh no,” Stiles answered, "I always wake with the dawn," he told her, “I imagine I shall have worn my fingers down to nubs with the work that needs doing by the time we break fast, but if you wish to eat in the women's rooms we can certainly have some salt cod sent up for you. Goodnight, dear sister." He offered her a little nod of the head, “and may your dreams be as pleasant as your countenance.”

After Heather had led him to his room he leant against the wall and took a deep breath. It felt like he had faced down a dragon. “You should not anger her, my lord," Heather said in an excited rush. “I do not believe it so, for Lady Laura was wise, but there is talk Lady Katherine is a witch who ensorceled her ladyship,” Stiles nodded although he didn't believe that witches really used magic, “but she has quick fingers when it comes to pinching the maids which displease her. We do our best to stay out of her path.”

“Continue to do so, I assume she has her own staff," Stiles left it open, Heather nodded. “If she gives you a direct order that does not contradict one of mine then you must do it, as quickly as you are able, if it is something that prevents you doing as I wish then tell her that she must ask me to relieve you from your duty. She may not care for it, but she will be forced to either ask me, which I do not think she will or send her own maids to do it.”

“She has an appointment with the girdler tomorrow," Heather said, “she wishes a new belt like she does not already have a surfeit.”

“Heather,” Stiles said, “if Kate has an appointment that takes her into the town, tell me, otherwise avoid her. There is so much about this manor that needs to be corrected, will you accompany me by the fire that we might discuss it? I will admit I have no idea where to start, I was hoping you might help.”

"My mama is the cook," Heather admitted, "I will share all that I know.”

By the time Keziah came to undress him for bed Stiles had a list of things he wanted to see corrected, writing them down on a piece of wood he found leaning against the wall with the burned edge of a taper, she clucked at him, bundling him unto the bed, under the down mattress in his shirt, with his hair braided up for the night.

He was surprised how quickly he fell asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Stiles woke and dressed quickly and quietly, yawning as Keziah pulled a kirtle over his head, instead of his usual cotehardie. It was a rough wool dress that he had grown too tall for, but Keziah had sewn a strip of fabric along the bottom so it reached a seemly length, he wore felt hose instead of his usual knit ones because he knew that he was going to do a lot of manual labour and it was not well to ruin his fine clothes. Keziah laced his braid to his head in a crown about his head, and then a forehead cloth to which a veil could be pinned, and then a thick knit cap to cover his hair. Woollen gauntlets and a pair of hobnail leather boots finished it, with a strip of old linen broadcloth around his waist to protect that part of his kirtle.

Another scrap was pinned over his bodice.

He did not look like a lady of the manor, but instead like a well to do farmer's wife who had a day of labour in front of her, even as Keziah blew out the rush lights, banked the fire and removed the shutters from the windows.

Liam was asleep against the door frame, wrapped up in a blanket, with his jacket folded up to make a pillow against the wall. “Liam," Keziah said softly shaking him awake, “it’s morning.”

“So soon," he grumbled.

“Why don't you go into the bedchamber and sleep on the rug in front of the fire before it dies. I’ll send someone to wake you in a little while.” Stiles said, ruffling the boy's hair although he was not much younger than Stiles himself was. Liam picked himself up, blanket and all, and went into the room, and sort of collapsed down in front of the fire and was back asleep before Stiles had thought reasonable. It was still dark out, and Keziah was holding a candle that they could make their way down the stone stairs safely.

Even that early the kitchen was a bustle of activity. There were five beta women moving back and forth at their morning tasks: building up the fire in the bread oven by stuffing it full of faggots; one was having a poultice smeared over small cuts on her hands as she complained about the chickens getting mean as the weather got colder. There was a boy dragging a heavy metal cauldron of water over to the fire and being followed by one of the servants with a broom.

The main chef, who was Heather's mother, was spitting a piece of salt pork, mostly by using the edge of the table to hold the meat in place whilst she forced the spit through. When they saw Stiles they all turned and curtseyed. “I’m sorry, milord," the head chef said, wiping her hands on her apron, “I haven't put anything on for you to break your fast, I have a little of yesterday’s bread and a taste of butter, the girl hasn't come in from the cows yet, so there’s no fresh milk yet, and most of that were for the morning's porridge. I know Lady Katherine is most particular about how she likes her porridge, made with fresh milk with a little pat of butter, I can make enough for two, but it's too early.”

“Madame," Stiles said, “I am aware it's far too early for breakfast, and I am more than happy to break my fast with the labourers later, and Lady Katherine can have what everyone has." He said firmly, no one other than Stiles’ husband, whom he had not yet met, was going to get anything special from the kitchens, there were far more important things than pleasing the lady Katherine. "If she complains then she is to be told that I have said so, and like her, I shall share in what everyone has.”

The chef wrung out her apron in her hands but said nothing.

“Are these all the maids in the manor?” Stiles asked, “because although I know it is winter the place is in a terrible state of repair, the rushes alone should have been replaced months since, and I was hoping for a besom at least that I might get a start on it.”

“These are the kitchen staff," the chef, who was Heather’s mother, told him, then turned to one of the girls, “round up the women in the village, tell them the new lord wants to start a spring clean. Fetch the labourers who are not in the fields.”

“Also the carpenter and the thatcher," Stiles said, “the walls of the privy-house are so flimsy and worn that I am sure the only thing holding them up is the seat over the pit, it does not make me feel secure, I must admit, I find myself holding the door shut with my foot and the wall with my hand.” The cook laughed which is what Stiles had intended. "I am new come to the manor but I wish it to be a place to be proud of, I am sure that it was, I see such flashes of it. I shall, of course, need to meet with you and the wardrober and steward, but if we at least have the place clean, as clean as you have kept the kitchens.”

“Certainly my lord, although it will be the task of more than a day.” She admitted.

“It will take as long as it takes, but you have my hands, I am not skilled but not unwilling.”

She chewed on her lips as she considered it. “The kitchen garden is not quite fallow, but it is not far from it, I have lacked the time to weed it, perhaps, my lord, with a blanket about your shoulders, you and my Heather might make a start at it.”

Stiles nodded, “with the rushes, I am sure they are not fit for much, but if they are dried might they be useful for faggots.” He said, “the old wood store is mostly empty, and if the thatcher starts with that, perhaps reusing the bracken bed as a hovel roof, it could certainly be shared amongst the village. it would be a sin to let so much go to waste.”

“My lord is most generous, even Lady Talia, the mother of our current lord, would simply burn them and allow any who wished take the ashes for their fields.” The cook said, she had a cup of water beside the fire into which dried mint had been crumbled and allowed to infuse to form a tisane, she took mouthfuls of it as she worked, rubbing salt and butter into the meat. There was a tray underneath to catch the excess which would later be ladled back on the meat.

“Let the people know that I am doing a strict clean and if it is cast out and they can find a use for it that they may take it. I know I must meet with Sir Isaac, the steward and Harris, the wardrober. Keziah if you can oversee the beating of the hangings, and is there a laundress, or is it tomorrow’s task?”

"If the weather is fine," the cook said, "we can use the bathhouse to wash most of the linen, the woollens we can certainly air. I am worried we might have issues with Lady Katherine, she does not much care for such upheaval and change.”

“I am your lord, not the Lady Kate," Stiles replied, “if she does not like it then she may stay in the local convent, I saw it as we approached.”

“It is a place of quiet contemplation," the cook said, “she would be most unsuited." Stiles caught her intention, that Kate would be very unhappy there, however, she had not pushed him to that point, yet.

—-

Stiles broke his fast between Parrish and Keziah, deciding that the porridge, boiled with water, although he had been given a little pat of butter upon his, smoked kippers, and a cup of boiled milk with a small dusting of grated nutmeg, whilst Harris complained about Stiles. It was open to his face and all Stiles could think was that having spent the last three hours on his knees pulling plants from the ground and into a trug, that this might have been the tastiest food he had ever had.

Isaac had passed over the keys to the manor without a question, he had admitted he did not have keys to the stores where Harris worked and kept the wealth of the manor or the solar on the first floor which had belonged to Lady Talia’s mari and had been closed since then.

Isaac had, when he saw that the main hall was being cleaned out, rolled up his sleeves and helped carry out the furniture to make the task easier. He had even gathered a few of the guards for similar tasks, and items used for the maintenance of the soldier's equipment was also grandfathered in.

Kate’s displeasure at her breakfast was only made manifest in the tears which her maid poorly concealed when she brought the empty tray back down. The maid did not carry word to the kitchens.

Harris, however, was quite vocal in not wanting Stiles to either have the key to the stores that he might inventory what was kept there or Harris’ books.

“You are a simple omega," Harris said, “and the books of the manor's stores are complicated, our bailiffs carry both goods and invoices and they must be carefully collated that the manor runs well.”

Stiles put down his spoon when Harris was finished. "I am sure that it is a difficult task, but the act of making sure that that which is in the books matches that on the shelf is a thing that anyone who can read as long as they know their numbers. I am certainly capable of that. So you will give me the key. It is my place as my lord's mari and his representative that I make for him a home of which he can be proud. I want to do that, and part of that is checking the books. I want access.”

"I have served as wardrober and quartermaster to Lady Laura and Lady Talia as well as Lord Theoderic, I do not care for this usurpation of my duties, I have been loyal these twenty years past since I came to Dubhfaolain to be an apprentice as a boy.”

"I do not question your service or loyalty, Master Harris,” Stiles repeated, his utensils on the table and his forearms resting politely on his skirts. “However this manor is in quite a state of disrepair, although labourers are paid for they are not used to best advantage and I need to know what I have that I might use to restore this manor, what I can use as collateral for credit if it is needed. To do that, for which only I have the authority, I need access to your books.”

Harris was brick red the in the face with anger. “If Lord Theoderic wills it I will give you the key and not a moment before,” he said and lifted his plate from the table to eat in the stores.

Isaac tore apart his bread with his hands, “anything that makes my job easier," he said, “whatever I can do to help.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanna say thank you, you're all so lovely and I'm overwhelmed by how positive the response to this has been. It's getting difficult to keep up with responses, so if I don't respond for a day or two, I haven't forgotten you, I'm just trying to get the chapters out first.  
> I'm so grateful and humbled by the response  
> if November wasn't so cold I'd probably be able to write much more simply because you're all inspiring me so much.

Theoderic Hale, most commonly called Derek, approached his ancestral home, _Dubhfaolain_ , in the middle of a rain storm where the rain was cold enough and heavy enough to soak through his cloak of goats wool, which had been oiled to keep out more of the weather. He had a hood pulled up tight about his head but as he passed through the gate he noticed a few things that were different. Stones had been laid in the mud of the courtyard, and lines of wood so that the horses were not up to their ankles in the mud, despite the rain. There was peat on the roof of some of the outbuildings, which was certainly not how it had been before, and what looked like a new privy was being built from stone.

The dogs beside him, four large wolfhounds, seemed as confused as he was, and just as displeased by the weather.

Although he knew it was late, perhaps closer to morning than dusk, he hoped there would be someone awake other than the guards who had opened the gate to him, that he might get a meal, some October ale, and a fire laid in his bedchamber. He had missed his straw mattress more than he had his house.

He dismounted, as Parrish, who had met him at the stables, gave orders of how the horses were to be treated, and even the stables seemed much better kept, smelling sweetly of hay and fresh straw with the musk of horses, but there was no lingering stench of old horse shit.

“Your mari awaits,” Parrish said. “He is most eager to make your acquaintance.”

“Eat." Derek corrected him.

“As my lord wishes,” Parrish said, waving Liam behind to make sure that there was food on the table. Derek had always preferred to eat in the kitchen, his table manners were not courtly, and he rarely went anywhere without his hounds, of which there were four, three hounds and a bitch. When Derek ate the hounds ate. When he slept the hounds slept. When he had gone to Edinburgh the dogs had too.

Knowing what he knew Parrish was not surprised by that.

Rather than rebuild the fire in the great hall, which had died out hours since, with the winter short nights the fire was allowed to die from nine of the clock, Derek was brought into a room off the kitchen where the cook used a table to knead her bread. The room was kept warm overnight so the bread could suitably prove, so it had a hot yeasty smell. Derek often ate in that room simply because it had a table, a stool and was warm no matter the time at night.

The cook, woken from her bed, with a cape wrapped around her linen shift, fetched him mutton and cold pease pudding, as well as using a key to unlock a cabinet of strong October ale, the kind he preferred. She dipped a mug into the small cask and put it on the table, after wiping it down with a piece of cloth so it didn't wet the table's surface.

The cook's daughter, Heather, was sent to wake his lordship’s mari that he did not get a fright at a strange man trying to climb into his bed.

Derek ate like he had not seen food in some weeks, making sure to drop the pieces he did not want for his hounds, especially the bitch, Bronagh, she then decided what went to her pack. He eschewed the use of cutlery picking up what he wanted with his fingers, the cold pease pudding was thick enough to slice but even so it was impolite to eat the way he did, most of the gravy of his meal ending up in his thick beard.

Derek did not have a valet, he had a squire, Brett, who was capable with his mail and the maintenance of his weapons and horses, but who lacked the ability to make his lord take more than a cursory care for his appearance. Parrish often did better, but it was unusual to get a comb through his hair or snips near his beard, which was thick and full like a bramble bush around his face. His hair was no better, matted in places, a few cursory attempts at braids were in others, and it would, had it not been twisted into a type of rat’s nest, at least past his shoulders in length.

Parrish often imagined he could see the lice moving through it.

It would not do.

As awful as it sounded he could not be allowed to bed with his new bride looking like a bramble bush upon which a particularly lazy bird had made attempt to make a nest. He was almost alive with vermin and if he carried them to the fine bed that his lordship had brought with him from Edinburgh they would most certainly be impossible to evict.

Also, his lordship had fine, delicate manners and skin. He was aware of his husband's reputation as the Hale Beast, as much for his manner as his ferocity in battle, Parrish liked the boy. He had done so much for Dubhfaolain these past weeks that it was wrong that he see his husband looking like the wild man of the highlands.

“You're having a bath," Parrish said firmly. Derek raised his head at that. He cared no more for baths than did the hounds.

“Lord," Derek growled.

“I forget nothing," Parrish said, “but you look like the last time you bathed was for wading through a burn some months hence. You stink worse than the privy, you are alive with fleas and I’ll not send you to bed as such. You are easier to clean than the sheets. I’ll get Boyd to boil up some water, between the two of us we might get you resembling a person and not a walking bush. If a child saw you right now they’d probably try to pluck you for blackberries.”

Derek lifted his leg of mutton with one hand and ripped a piece away with his teeth. “Bathing bad." He said.

“Sharing a fine bed with half of god's creatures is unhealthy.” Parrish corrected, “whilst they rid you of most of your humours. I shall also have to cut away your hair and beard, perhaps see if my lord is under there.”

Derek snapped his teeth loudly.

“Brother," Kate said from the doorway, she was leaning on the frame in such a way that her entire posture was to emphasise her breasts. Unlike some of the other women about the manor Kate was not blessed with an over generous chest but she was aware of how to present it to best advantage. Her fine cotehardie was cut low to show off the swell of her breasts which were tightly bound to make them rise higher. She had a slimness which was perhaps too ascetic for current fashion, and she had clearly dressed quickly because her dress was poorly laced and she lacked her usual jewelry.

"Kate," Derek said and went back to his mutton. He had never given her much care. She was Kate, and that was enough for him. It was not enough for Kate, however.

"I have missed you since you have been absent, you know how quiet this place gets without conversation.” Parrish felt the urge to laugh. His lord was many things but he was not easily given to conversation.

Derek made a noise of acknowledgement, or perhaps a simple clearing of his throat to help swallow the mutton he was eating.

“I trust that you were successful in driving off the raiders. The last time you had such gifts for me.” She offered him a smile that was meant to be seductive but Derek had never looked at Kate like that. Kate was Kate and he had never seen her as a person with hopes or dreams, simply as the daughter of the man who had taken him in, and then as his sister for she had married Laura. Kate had been trying to seduce him since Derek had returned from the Holy Land. Derek was yet to notice. It was possible he thought that was just Kate’s nature.

“It would be improper, my lady," Parrish said, “for him to give you such gifts now that he is married, his mari should be the one now to receive such favour.” He had never cared for Kate and more than once had argued that she should be returned to her father, or preferably, placed in a convent where he personally no longer had to deal with her.

Parrish loathed Kate.

When he had come from Queen Sybylla's court in Jerusalem with Derek he had been ill-suited to the Scottish weather and the rough nature of its people, and there was Kate with her Edinburgh manners and she had seemed kind, right up until she had refused to accept that Parrish had a lady as she slid her hand up his thigh.

His Lydia had not been pleased to learn of it in her letters. She had been promised to Parrish when he had returned from Jerusalem, being yet too young for marriage, but she knew her own mind and her letters pleased him. He was not sure she would be as happy in _Dubhfaolain_ as he was at first, but she would come to love it as he did.

Parrish always treated Kate like he imagined that Lydia would - with disdain.

“Sister," it was Stiles that spoke. Like Kate, he had clearly been roused from his bed but the only sign of it was that his hair was uncovered and hung like a rope down his back, “it is late, should you not be abed? I am given to hear that those who are older need more sleep than such as I.” Parrish loved watching Stiles deal with Kate, they were vicious but always perfectly pleasant in their manner. They tore each other apart but never with anything other than what, to the casual observer, seemed to be pleasant words and compliments. “There are still some hours until dawn.”

"I thank you, brother, for your compliments, but although I must admit some years upon you with age comes wisdom, and should not children also be abed. You have such a fine bed, you must be loath to leave it.”

Stiles’ smile was brittle. “It is my duty that I greet my husband." He said he looked at Derek, “welcome home, husband, I await upon your pleasure." The words were those that would be used in court.

Kate pulled a face like she had smelled something most unpleasant, and turned on her heel.

“Well met," Derek said, wiping his hands on his leathers, and offering it to the boy to shake, “Derek.” It was a rare offer, Derek rarely remembered enough of his manners to answer to my lord.

“By your will, I am most often called Stiles, my full name is a mouthful, they call me Saint Yseult’s Miracle.”

Derek looked at his hand, still offered out to shake which the boy had not taken, then went back to his cup. “You," He admitted, “like hart in snow, your," he ran his hand over the boy’s neck, his skin darker from use and to his credit Stiles did not flinch from his touch although Parrish recognised the effort it took not to do so, “it is, words, Parrish,” he had often used Parrish to be verbose when he was not.

“It is a compliment, my lord," Parrish said, “he means your throat, it is lovely, like that of a white hart on a bed of snow, it is meant well, not as a threat." Stiles seemed to deflate a little.

“Thank you, my, I mean Derek.” Stiles ducked a quick curtsey, “I,”

Derek patted him on the chest, “good boy.” He said.

Boyd, one of Derek's knights, and the most taciturn made his way through the kitchen breaking the uncomfortable tension in the room, “my lord," he said, “your bath is ready.”

Stiles let out a breath that he was not sure that he had known that he was holding in a loud sigh. “I shall," he said, “upstairs, I,” the words were gone when he was so confident with Kate, “by the fire. I’ll wait.”

Derek patted him again twice with loud dull claps of his hand. “Good boy." He repeated.


	8. Chapter 8

Lord Theoderic Hale did not care for baths. He especially did not care for baths at winter. He tried to keep himself clean but it was something that was very difficult when you were tracking raiders or helping the local fishermen careen their boats or any of the other things that he ended up doing when he was not at the manor.

The raiders preferred the summer and autumn for their worst predations, so he would do his best to catch them before they went back to their ships, and take the goods back from them, then restore them to the abbeys and monasteries that they had robbed. He was constantly on the road, and so he didn't really have the opportunity to polish his skin with linen daily the way he was supposed to as a peer of the realm. As he was often rolled out of his cloak and sleep to ride hard he did not care for his hair as long as it was out of the way and his beard kept his face and neck warm. 

His clothes were rank with sweat and salt water and muck when Parrish cut them from him, using a knife to ease out the seams. There were places where the linen had almost felted to his skin. The smell, as Parrish pulled the fabric away, was almost strong enough to make Derek himself retch.

Normally if Derek was to be bathed it was for court and it was women who brooked no nonsense who removed his clothes and forced him into the hot water. Boyd merely had the advantage of being stronger.

He had three cauldrons to heat over the fire and already the water in the tub was a finger deep. “I don't think we’ll be salvaging the hose," Boyd said, “it's a wonder your nasty toenails have not worked their way through the wool.” He didn't bother with even attempting to salvage them, he just dumped them into the fire where they smoked foully as they burned. “We leave you alone for how long and look at you already.”

Boyd didn't talk much for the most part, but if he had something to say he was not shy about sharing it. Derek had made his acquaintance in Jerusalem and they had formed a fast friendship, in that Boyd bullied Derek when he felt it was necessary and Derek was prepared to defend him to the death.

Boyd pushed Derek onto a milking stool and lifted his foot, resting it on his own thigh like Derek were a pony and used similar tools to cut away the twisted yellow length of Derek's nails. “Never mind the toes of your stockings, it’s a wonder it doesn't hurt.” Derek shrugged, “at least I do not have to cut off the toes. I should have Brett lashed for letting you get into this state.” Derek growled at that. “His job is to make sure that this doesn't happen, not to cow from you because you scare him.” Derek was forced to put his hands down on the floor to catch his balance when Boyd lifted the other foot with a jerk to examine it.

Boyd was not a squire but he was strict enough. “If you won’t cut these yourself then he has to. That is what you keep him for.” Derek made a grumbly sort of noise, which became a deeper growl when Parrish came in with more buckets of water which he tipped into the tub watching as the steam rose, before reaching into a pouch on his belt and throwing a handful of herbs and salt into the water.

“God's wounds, man," Parrish said looking at Derek, “your skin is grey, did you even wander through a burn,” Derek let his shoulders down and pouted as Parrish continued, “there is no way that we could have let him go to his bed, it has a fine new bed and linens, they’d be ruined. Now hold still.”

Derek yelped and whined, low in his throat, as Parrish used the snips to cut away his hair in large mats like pads that he dropped to the floor, and was as rough when he sawed away at the worst bits. Derek struggled and wriggled but he didn't throw them off even though he was easily strong enough to. He did not care for this process but he understood it's necessity even if he lacked the language to express that understanding, and in its places were growls and whines, that made his hounds whine with him. “You have half the livestock of the highlands in this,” Parrish said, picking out what looked like a beetle, “it is not merely jumping, it's an infrastructure.”

Derek's shoulders dipped a little lower, and if he had had a tail it would have hung limply in shame.

Once Boyd had cut his toenails into shape and used a whetstone on the worst calluses on his lord’s feet, and Parrish had cut away the very worst of the hair, they dumped him in the tub to soak away the rest of the grime.

Boyd, never one to baulk at a task, started to use the same scrubbing brush the cook used on the table on his back, making the dead skin slough off into the water, tugging up his feet so Derek fell hard into the water with a yelp.

With what remained of his hair wet, Parrish unrolled his razor and then dragged it along the strop. “I should shave you as a bald as an egg,” he said, using some of his soap, sent from Lydia as a gift and very precious and expensive, and made with lemon verbena to try and reduce insect activity, to lather up his hands and ran it through what remained of his lord’s scruff.

Derek whined through the entire process, through the tight trimming of his hair, and Boyd’s ruthless scrubbing of his skin until it was red under their hands, but the grey was gone, and the water around him looked like it had sluiced across the floor.

"I always forget," Boyd said, “under the dirt and grime and god alone knows what you are a handsome man.”

It was true. Derek was fine featured, with a strong nose, wide cheekbones, and sparkling eyes. He had thick brows and his jaw was strong, once his beard was trimmed down to frame his face rather than completely hide it. With his hair trimmed neatly and slicked back with water it showed his clear forehead so instead of looking like a London indigent he looked like a knight, the sort of knight that they kept in the court for their looks as opposed to their ability, but Derek was not often in court.

After his upbringing, it was a wonder that Derek was capable of so much.

Boyd helped him from the water as Parrish used clean water to sluice the cut hair from his head and face, before he took up some of the clean linen scraps and rubbed him dry, being as rough with the old fabric as he had been with the brush, so what little of the dead skin that remained was gone, before they dressed him in fresh knitted hose and a linen shirt. He was, after all, to bed, after this as it was near morning.

A few hours sleep would do him a lot of good.

But then there was Stiles, the bride with whom he had only exchanged very few words, but yet they were married. They would have to work that out among themselves, Parrish wondered.

—-

When Derek went to his bedchamber, his hounds as always loping at his heels, for he went nowhere without them, the entire room was different from how he had remembered it. The small trundle bed which had been his own was gone, replaced by a large bed with posts holding aloft a canopy from which heavy wool curtains hung, those at the head and foot of the bed were closed, but only those. The other two were open, although shutters had been placed against the window to block out any moonlight. The fire had been roused but then banked again, clearly in preparation for his arrival, and the dogs broke ranks to lie upon the thick rug placed there, with a sleepy yawn. Most surprising to Derek was the young omega who sat beside the bed.

He was asleep, sat on a stool but he had, at some point, rested his head against the mattress and fallen asleep because although he remained dressed, and Derek had always found it silly to dress omega in the restrictive skirts of a beta woman, tangling in their legs and preventing them from anything but the most simple tasks, strangely his dark hair was uncovered, but tied back in a neat braid, and he was dead to the world asleep.

Derek smiled to himself as he put his hand on the omega’s shoulder, trying to rouse him to wakefulness, “no," the omega said, “no, I don't wanna.” Derek rolled his eyes and then gathered the boy into his arms, tugging back the blankets and laid the boy under the down mattress, with his face against the down pillow, making sure he was warm and safe under it, completely covered except for his head.

Derek stroked his face twice as the boy smacked his lips in his sleep, he was somewhat surprised by his beauty, he had not expected something so lovely. From the chest, he shook out a pair of leather pants, the sort he used most often for hunting as it meant that the undergrowth and brambles did not tear his hose and anger Parrish. He did not care if his legs were scratched but Parrish would scold him for silly things, Derek thought, but Parrish was good and useful and Parrish often spoke when Derek could not, or would not. Then he pulled on a wool cotte that came to his knees, fastening the buttons himself.

He would go hunting, he decided, he would find a prey worthy of this boy and his loveliness. With a low whistle, he called the dogs to him, and gestured that Bronagh, his most trusted and the only bitch of the pack, to watch over the boy.

He wasn't that tired, he could sleep in the afternoon. If the boy did not want to share his bed with him, he would not have to.


	9. Chapter 9

Stiles woke much later than he was used to. He found it difficult to come to wakefulness, the sleep hanging over him like a pall, and it took him a moment to realise that he was in bed, but wearing a full cotehardie and his woollen boots, which was what had confused him so. He realised he had been sure that he had been sat by the bed awaiting his new husband, but he had woken up in the bed and Keziah was not present. Instead, a large shaggy hound lay on the rug on the floor in front of the fire.

When Stiles swung his legs down he disturbed her and she raised her head to look at him, then yawned and lay down again.

Stiles decided it was best to not interfere, the dog was huge, certainly big enough if she wanted to she could easily hurt if not outright kill him, so he washed up quickly, and pulled on his surcoat over his cotehardie, and pinned a veil over his hair and went down to the main hall.

He had his tasks to perform just like the rest of the household.

Before he did anything else he ducked out of the side door and lifted his basket, a low trug that he used for whatever it was he needed and went to the hen house. Since he had taken over the duty he found that the hens seemed to be happier, it might have been that the girl who had done it before was rougher with them, but they had started pecking at him like they might take his hand off, and now they just moved out of the way whilst he looked for eggs.

There were six in total that he put in his basket before he threw out some feed for them into the ground, full handfuls that they gobbled up greedily. The young rooster was looking plump and Stiles wondered if he should mention it to the cook, that now their lord had returned that they might serve him a chicken supper as an unusual delight.

When he turned to go back into the house he was surprised to see the shaggy hound waiting for him, looking somewhat displeased that he had slipped off without her. After that, she clung by his heels. Stiles wondered if she had been told to.

When he went into the kitchen the cook took the eggs from him and cracked two of them into a pan to fry in the grease from the bacon she was cooking. “Saw his lordship last night," she said, probably hoping for some gossip, “thought you might be wanting something a bit more solid, I was going to send up my Heather with this for you.”

“Do we have the bacon to spare?” Stiles asked, he was mostly aware of what was in the stores, especially the meat, but even if they did slaughter one of the yearling pigs it would take some time before the bacon was cured in its barrels of salt water. Salt was not as much of a commodity in _Dubhfaolain_ with it's proximity to the sea. It was not unusual to see the labourers wandering down to the small harbour beneath the walls to fill barrels with sea water to dry out on the flats of the walls.

“Himself has gone hunting, we won't be short of meat for a while, if anything we might have a surfeit, he's a fine hunter, most of our wealth, such as it has been, is in furs, we have more tanners than anything else, and hearing he's back the smith has gone to find more whetstones for all the knives he’ll have to sharpen. Everyone prepares for him arriving and then spending days in the woods to the south and comes back with half the animals within it, like five brace of rabbits, and three hogs and a stag, and a few squirrels because they crossed his path.” She plated up the bacon and eggs, “now sit, and get that into you, you might be with child already.”

"I don't think so," Stiles corrected her. He had checked his nethers when he had woken and if his husband had taken his rights he hadn't done it when he was asleep. There was no evidence either on Stiles or the sheets. There was no soreness or even an untied garter around his leg, let alone the evidence of anything else.

“The first one is quick to latch, it often doesn't keep, and that is something most alphas need to know about, but it's best to do our best, from my lips to god's ears that any bairns you have are bonny and strong.”

Stiles sighed, “from your lips to god's ears." He repeated it like it was a prayer, “but between us," he said looking around for someone who might overhear, “I do not think he came to my bed last night.”

“He did leave early, _leannan_ ," the cook agreed, “he’s a dear thing, as dear to me as one of my own, he is showing you some care," she flicked her eyes to the dog who lay at Stiles’ feet, “if he's left his Bronagh at your heels whilst he hunts, he’s never done that before, and certainly not for Mistress Katherine.” No one was really sure if Kate was still due the title of lady because she was Laura's widow and had not been delivered of an heir at all during their marriage. IT was well known that Laura never visited her bride's chambers, and was whispered in quiet corners that she was not happy to be married to the daughter of the man who had taken her in after the fire which killed her parents, but those whispers were where Kate’s ears, which seemed to be everywhere, could not hear. “And I’ll reassure you,” she said pouring out the last of the previous day’s milk for him, “he wouldn't have gone to her chamber. If he did not go to you then he spent the night in the barracks.”

She patted him on the cheek, a gesture that was at once fond and patronising, he always felt so young when he talked to her. “It will be fine, _leannan_ , God turned his ear from the Hales once, and in that time the devil cut them down, he will not do so again.”

Stiles cut the fat from his bacon and threw it down to the dog who gobbled it greedily. “I feel like I am new come to this place again, that all I have achieved might be worth nothing.”

She clucked at him. “Don't let Lady Kate’s animosity dissuade you, I can guarantee that everyone in the manor appreciates you, as soon as they need to visit the privy.” Stiles barked out a laugh. “We can now sit in peace and not worry the wall will fall on us, or the door will land in the mud in front of us.”

“That was not a good moment for my dignity," Stiles said,”I thought I might die of shame when it slapped down. If not for Parrish.”

“If not for your new lord then Parrish would not have been there to prop up the door so quickly.” She said with a smile, she was testing the heat of the bread ovens. Breakfast was served on trenchers of the previous day's bread but for the rest of the meals the bread was made freshly that day. It took hours to heat up the stones in the bread oven, which she did by filling the ovens with faggots which she lit and then scraped out the fires and put the bread in as quickly as they could, before sealing the ovens and allowing the bread to cook.

“It shall be my legacy, I used some of the castle’s store of mortar and lead to create a privy that will not fall over in a slight breeze.”

“It is a legacy that the entire manor for many generations shall appreciate and speak of you in their prayers. They might not learn the value of the new rush floorings you insisted on, or the colours in the hangings without years of dirt because if we gave time for the cleaning we were always sent on other tasks.” She slammed the metal door of the oven into place, “it is not my place to speak ill of the dead," she said, “but her ladyship knew so little about running the manor and she was easily distracted by her bride sending her on raids that she had gotten information about from her father. He has long been envious of the position of _Dubhfaolain_ , that's why he was so keen to have his children marry for its sake, he secured his own manor with his omega son, marrying him to her cousin. He's a Norman, he would be better suited in England. I don't know if he realises how hard Scotland can be, and how little we forget.”

There was a firmness in her voice, before she looked around to make sure they were alone, “you are not alone in your dislike, _leannan,_ " she said, “now you get on with your chores, the soonest done the soonest you can lock yourself in your chamber with your new husband, a small cask of wine, and some of that beef stew I’m planning to make for your supper.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leannan is gaelic for darling or sweetheart, it's a pet name  
> however there is also the leannan sidhe, the seductress of the fairy realms


	10. Chapter 10

It started snowing just before noon, large thick flakes that stuck in the fur of Derek's cap and displeased Aodhan, the youngest of his hounds, who sneezed and looked at Derek like he could make it stop.

Derek chuckled to himself and finished stringing the boar over the back of his saddle, Gwynham and Wynne, who had the white blaze on his chest, moved in to flank Derek as he made the decision.

The pack had been bigger when they left the Argent lands for the Holy lands, Teithi and Nola had been left in distant sands and Derek had howled with his pack for them, singing their laments to the full moon. Bronagh was their dam. She was starting to stiffen when the weather got hard, and she had more white in her muzzle than she used to.

It was best he had left her behind to watch over his new mate. The boy was young and did not know about Dubhfaolain, although he had made it sweet smelling, and if Derek himself could not be there Bronagh was as reliable as Parrish.

Parrish had the words that Derek lacked. He seemed to know what Derek wanted to say and was able to speak when Derek got tangled.

Words were hard.

Derek suspected his new mate would make things hard.

He was used to sleeping in a pile with his pack, with their warmth and their paws around him and Bronagh resting her head across his ribs so that he knew he was safe and loved.

All of the safety and security that Derek learned after the fire was from the dogs.

They had hunted and fed on what they had found, mostly just rats who hung around the manor, fat on grain, so the rabbits they dropped at Derek's feet, to tie up on his horse. They had always been hunting dogs, it was possibly why they scared people. Derek did not mind that.

Words were hard; if they were scared they didn't try to talk to him.

He had come across a boar, perhaps a little thinner than he would care for, he wanted to give his mate a fat animal, one that would roast deliciously, to show how good a hunter he was. He had not thought that he would have a mate, the king needed him more for stopping the men from the boats who hunted the churches.

He had brought back gifts for his mate, the shiny stones that Kate seemed to like so much, strung together with leather and silver wire. If Kate liked them then his new mate would like them, and if he liked them then he would like Derek and they would be a fine alpha pair.

He would give him soft rabbit furs, and bright fox furs and then if it pleased him, if Derek pleased him, they could have pups. Human pups were not as sturdy or fine as dog pups, dog pups were strong and could hunt as early as within one season, but human pups needed more care. They needed fat rabbits and soft furs and a happy dam and strong sire.

A strong sire would provide many fat rabbits and soft furs for a new pup to lie upon.

 

The manor smelled sweeter since the mate had come. Some of the walls were white where they had not been before, and one of the men who wandered around the manor, who did things when they were told, Parrish called them labourers, came forward to take his horse and tried to take the boar from it's back. Derek growled at him. When Derek growled the dogs at his side growled too. The man backed off.

“It is well," Parrish said, coming from between the brewery and the grain store, he had muck and mortar on his face from where he had been helping out, but he had clearly come out to investigate the sound of the horse, “he wishes to carry his kill in himself. It’s fine, lad, go back to helping at the brewhouse.”

The boy ducked his head and went back to work. "I received a letter from my dear Lydia this past month so I am in fair humour, do you want my aid in carrying in your kill?” Derek considered it for a moment and decided that Parrish could carry the string of rabbits and the two squirrels that he had caught. Derek pulled the boar over his shoulders with a grunt, because it was heavy.

“Have you spoken to your new bride?” Parrish asked.

Derek rolled his shoulders to better distribute the weight of the boar. He didn't have words. Words were hard. His new bride would be delighted with his kill. Derek had shown himself to be a fine hunter. “He’s a charming boy, he talks a lot.” Derek made a sort of Hn sound. "It might make his day if you spoke to him.” Derek made the hn sound again, and hefted the boar again as if to say, why do I need to talk to him after presenting him with such fine meat.

Parrish walked along with him into the main hall.

Stiles was sat by the fire, one of the large chairs from the table had been pulled up against the wall near the mantle, the one without arm rests, with his harp resting against his shoulder, and his fingers deftly pulling the strings to create music. He had an open expression with his eyes closed and his head tilted into the rest upon his shoulder.

Derek couldn't help but smile at his beauty. He must have pleased the king greatly that he had been allowed to mate with such a beautiful boy, one that was so clever and could make such lovely music.

When Bronagh saw Derek she raised her head from where she had lain on an old fur in front of the fire. Derek could not help but smile for his new mate took care of his pack-sister.

Bronagh moving, she was lain across Derek's new mate’s feet, caused the boy to open his eyes and see Derek, he opened his mouth to speak as Derek took the boar, heavy as it was, and slapped it on the table in front of him.

“My lord," Parrish said, “might I introduce you to your husband, Lord Theodoric Hale of Dubhfaolain.”

"No,” Stiles said, “I saw my husband last night, and he was not this man.” He was firm in it, holding his harp in his hands like it was a shield. “He was wild with hair and fur.”

Parrish laughed, “he was when he first came late last night, but, on my honour, I could not let him soil your new bed, Boyd, the knight who manages our stables, and I pinned him down and scrubbed him like a floor. This is your lord, Stiles.”

“He is fair handsome,” Stiles said, “I would have heard if the Hale beast was handsome.”

“Would you have?” Parrish asked, “when so many of the other rumours are so much more salacious, like how he cut off the fingers of a man who would not lift his hand from my lord’s thigh when he was warned, or how he tore into a rabbit with his teeth raw in front of his king, or perhaps the slaughters in the Holy Land, news of which followed him home.”

“You have a point," the boy frowned. Derek liked that he was open in his expression. Parrish was cheerful and happy with life, and Boyd was tired and quiet, which was why he and Derek seemed so well suited as companions. They could go entire days without speaking and not consider it a lack. Parrish talked enough for the three of them. “I’m sure those stories aren't true.”

Parrish laughed, “oh there is some truth in them," and Stiles smiled with him and Derek felt a growl in the base of his throat. Parrish was his friend and Stiles was his mate and they seemed to have an ease between them. Parrish had a mate, she sent him letters because they were apart. Parrish did not need Derek's mate, so why were they so easy with each other. Could Derek's mate not see how fine a mate Derek was, he had brought him a fine boar and a brace of rabbits, and squirrels because their fur was fine and Kate was always thankful when she was given squirrel tails to trim her dresses.

Derek did growl then. Words were hard and he didn't know the word for what he felt, that Parrish was taking what was his.

“Your lord wants acknowledgements of his prowess." Parrish said, "I shall go and fetch cook from the kitchens, she’s going to need some help to butcher this.” Parrish bowed his head a little as he left, leaving the brace of rabbits on the table.

“For you," Derek said, although the words were slippery, like eels. “For you to," he pressed his finger tips to his mouth, “I,” he wanted to call for Parrish. Words weren't hard for Parrish, but right now he didn't want Parrish anywhere around his new mate.


	11. Chapter 11

Someone, it was not Stiles, had decided that Stiles was to have his supper in his room with his new husband, not in the main hall with all of the people who worked in the manor. Keziah seemed especially happy about this and pulled Stiles aside come dusk that he might be prepared for it, which involved combing out his hair and lacing it with silk ribbons and putting on his best girdle that the queen had given him, and the bracelet with the tiger eyes that she had said reminded him of his eyes.

Keziah had ignored Stiles’ protests and put him in his best gown, the golden one with the back lacing, and then a dark blue surcoat that was far too fine for Dubhfaolain and as such Stiles had planned to sell to accommodate the lack in the manor. Considering that the manor was in such a fine position to take advantage of both the wool crofters and the fishermen that they protected, and how his husband’s patrols against the Northmen raiders covered many fine monasteries the manor was particularly poor.

Or perhaps Stiles' model was incorrect based on the royal court and he was overestimating it.

There was a lack of grain, which a poor harvest could explain but the harvest had not been poor. The manor had lacked basic upkeep and cleaning because Kate had allowed it to happen. Stiles despised Kate, after a few weeks of her acquaintance, he made a point never to spend time with her unless it could be helped, he found her to be a shallow creature with little care for anything but her own pleasure. She liked expensive things and to be treated like she was the queen, and so in pandering to her wishes things had been allowed to slip through the chores, and eventually became such a large task that no one wanted to do them.

In just a few weeks, although this sort of behaviour was better suited to the spring, Stiles had done his best to make the manor livable if not perfect. Some doors still needed to be replaced, and some windows lacked shutters, mostly the ones with the drafts that felt like it had rolled across the surface of the snow infested part of Hell, but it was better.

He had worked hard to do whatever he could, whether that was carrying buckets of water from the well to the masons, or getting down on hands and knees to help scrub the great hall's fireplace. Keziah had scolded him for that as she rubbed warm sage oil into his hands to try and keep his skin soft and noble. It had helped with the ache.

The idea of Kate tucking up her hair and waiting with a besom as a thick branch of spruce was dragged down the chimneys to loosen the worst of the soot was enough to make Stiles laugh out loud. He had laughed when he had done it too.

But Kate said things, things that he did not want to be true. She said that she and his new husband were lovers, which Stiles had not wanted to be true, and then when Stiles had seen him when he first arrived he had known to not be true, because Kate would never condescend to lie with such a creature, but then Parrish had cleaned him and the man underneath the mats and dirt had been beautiful, the sort of Alpha that was valued at court for his looks above all, and that was the sort of man that Kate would lie with.

Stiles hadn't wanted it to be true but he was almost sure that it was.

Kate was hateful and vindictive but she was beautiful and she was practised in the bedroom arts. All Stiles knew was how to lift his skirt and hope he would not come to harm.

Then his new husband had slammed a boar nearly the size of Stiles himself upon the table. He had paid no mind to Kate, almost as if she wasn't there when she had entered the room and simpered at him. He had looked only at Stiles, relying on Parrish to have words for him.

Was his new husband shy? Was that why words came so hard to him. It was not unthinkable, some warriors were fine with sword and shield but in the great hall they were angry and expressed themselves in grunts and food. Stiles remembered when he had been a boy that the Earl of Doncaster had come to visit the king and the man had not spoken a word for his entire visit, but he had a man who served him who spoke for his lord in all things. Perhaps it was like that with his new husband and Parrish although it had been heavily implied that the alpha earl was sleeping with his male beta manservant, to the point it remained a joke years later, that the earl of Doncaster liked fine clothes; or took the lady’s role in the dance or the fool would put on women’s dress and go "I’m the earl of Doncaster" and kiss the men and everyone would laugh. The Earl of Doncaster had laughed as much as anyone although it was a little cruel.

As a male omega Stiles had heard for all of his life that he was just a girl with no tits or that he might as well have been for all that he was good for.

It meant when he saw Kate who was soft and lovely and had hands like lily petals when his own were large and mannish with thick knuckles he felt even more estranged from his own skin. He wanted to be like her, to be soft and rounded and have a laugh like a promise, and to draw eyes not because he was the queen's bastard, it had been a persistent rumour although it was not true - he was a bastard but not the queen's for all she had been like a mother to him. He had the promise of a fine dower and so men desired him for what he was, not who, and now his husband who was rough and more hound than man seemed to like Kate's softness more than Stiles’ questionable comforts.

Stiles was tall and bony and what curves he had were baby fat that he would certainly lose, he had a little roundness to his belly and thighs, but he lacked breasts - some male omega did develop them Stiles was told by his tutor, Stiles had not, and his hips were bony and sharp, and he had feet like an alpha.

Why would such a handsome and virile husband want him? Even if Keziah had dressed him in his finest gown and polished his hair with silk before she had used real silk ribbons in his hair, and there had been a pot of real kohl on the shelf for his use and so she had darkened his eyes, like the queen had sometimes when she needed to be most lovely, and a little rouge on his lips, because Keziah was a romantic and wanted to make sure her charge was the lovely maiden in the stories she preferred from the minstrels.

And when the maids carried up the supper, covered with linen, Keziah kissed his forehead and pinched both cheeks that they would be reddened, and left him.

It felt a very long time before Stiles’ husband arrived.

His hair was wet, suggesting that Parrish had forced him into another bath. He wore a freshly washed red wool cotte and leather breeches and his boots were lace up to his knee. He wore no jewellery and in his hands he had a pouch which when he saw Stiles thrust out to him uncomfortably, almost blushing. Stiles wondered again if he was shy, he was nervous that was obvious, but his speech was laboured like he struggled hard to find his words. “You,” he said finally and his voice was nowhere near as Stiles had expected it to be.

Stiles rested the pouch on his lap as he undid the laces. There was a small vial of something that might be perfume, but he would not know without opening it, but it could as easily be poison. There were some small stones, that when Stiles lifted saw as unpolished gems, both red and green, and one that looked like it might be onyx. There was a necklet of polished agates on a pair of silver wires that would sit around his collar bones and was quite lovely. The different colours of the agates looked spectacular in the firelight.

“Mine," Derek struggled again with the words, and at his feet Bronagh made a sighing noise. He took a deep breath and let it out through his nose slowly, “words are hard." he admitted.

"I always find them slippy,” Stiles said, “they all crash together and I find myself talking about all sorts of things like why the Romans made straight roads and why they make towers in circles and then I find myself talking about all sorts of things because I don't know what to say and I don't know how to shut up.”

His new husband was looking at him like he was wondrous. "I," he said, "I like your words,” he finally managed to stutter out, “your words not hard.” Stiles smiled at him, it was such a lovely compliment. Derek sat on the chair facing him. “Words tangle up, like knots," he touched his hair, “Parrish good with words, your words good, maybe you make words not hard.”

It was a lot and Derek clearly looked exhausted by admitting it. “Mine," he added, “to make me strong, to be," the word, if he had ever known it was gone, “I,” he was clearly getting angry at his inability to talk, like the absence of words was taunting him.”

“You don't have to talk if it's too hard," Stiles said, and uncovered the plate of food before them. Cook had given them the roasted boar's liver, fried with some of the winter apples, and served on a fine slice of bread, one for each of them. It was customary for the hunter who had killed the beast to get the best cuts of the offal, and Stiles hoped she did not get into trouble for sharing it between them. There was also a sweet pudding, boiled in milk, to break and share between them, and a jug of wine with two cups that had been placed by the fire earlier that it might be at a comfortable temperature to drink.

“For you," Derek said pushing the tray across to him, “talk.” He clearly did not know what it meant to invite Stiles to talk to him, Stiles could talk for a large group of people and say nothing of value in doing so.

“I talk a lot,” Stiles told him, “you might regret telling me that.”

“No," Derek said, “talk.” He touched his finger to his ear to gesture that he wanted to listen, then pushed the tray forward again, “eat," he brought his finger and thumb, pressed against each other to his mouth, “strong dam strong pups," he finished.

Stiles' heart broke a little, the gesture was well-intentioned he knew, but this was why Derek was being kind, he wanted to get children upon him, nothing more.


	12. Chapter 12

Stiles ate though the food, well cooked fresh liver with some of the store’s apples, and served in it’s own gravy, tasted like dust in his mouth. It was only when Derek was convinced that he had eaten enough that Derek finished what was left, breaking open the steamed buns in his broad hands and offering half to Stiles with a shy smile.

It was obvious to Stiles that his new husband had no idea that he had said something that felt like it had sucked the very world from Stiles.

But there was still a fire in the grate, and there was still a pile of polished agates on a pair of chains on the table, there was wine in the cup. The world had ended but it had not.

It did not matter that Stiles had rebuilt the manor, that he had nights where he could not sleep because the figures from the bailiffs and the figures from the tenants didn’t seem to match up with what was in the manor. All he was good for was having children.

Perhaps he should have left the manor to ruin like Kate had.

But Stiles still had his pride.

He took the bun in his hands and took small squirrelling bites. It was good, rich and sweet, and when Derek saw Stiles enjoying it he smiled.

“Words are hard,” he said, licking his lips, “sometimes I get,” he paused, “and the words get slippy, like rocks in a burn,” he stopped and gestured like he was falling over. “Sometimes words are wrong.” He took a deep breath before he continued. “I made words wrong.”

Stiles started a little, shifting in his chair. He had not realised his husband might understand that he had offended him. He was so earnest in his intent to be honest that it hadn’t occurred to Stiles that he might choose the wrong ones. “My apologies, my lord, but I think you did.” Stiles became stiffly informal when he was hurting. The Queen had always said it was how she could tell.

“I,” Derek paused for a moment. “Words are hard.” He repeated- he used it like a refrain when he didn’t know what to say, the way that the concepts were sometimes to complicated for him to express.

“Yes,” Stiles agreed, taking more of his wine, “they are.” He poured more wine into his husband’s cup. He looked at the necklace, it would hang prettily over his cotehardie but under his pellote, so that the two strings, separated by more than two finger’s width, would hang prettily along his breastbone. If he wore a kirtle, as opposed to the pellote then it would rest against his heart. “I don’t know what it is you want of me.”

“Saint Yseult’s Miracle,” Derek said. The words had a sort of practised grace in his mouth like he had repeated them over and over to get Stiles’ name right. “You are mine.” The way he said it was not so much a declaration of ownership but an offer, whatever it was that Derek was trying to say, it was embodied in that word. Stiles could recognise that, and he knew that the lack of ability to express himself was frustrating him, and the more frustrated he got the worse his ability to express himself got.

“Stiles,” Stiles corrected, “everyone calls me Stiles.” He had to qualify it. “Saint Yseult’s miracle is such a mouthful and it’s such a silly story why they called me that, they thought my mother was going to have to join a convent because she got pregnant and she was there at the church of Saint Yseult and there was a terrible harvest, and they thought that everyone was going to starve, and the day that I was born they found a large bag of gold. I know it came from my father, all I know about him was that he was very rich but he wasn’t a noble, and that the queen said he wanted to take me but that her father wouldn’t let him, I was born in France, and so I stayed with the queen, but they called me Saint Yseult’s Miracle because that’s what the monks were calling it, but I always thought of it as proof my father wanted me, even though I was a bastard. I think the old Duke of Brittany only kept me because I was an omega, but then I went with her majesty to Edinburgh when she married and so he didn’t get the benefit of marrying me to one of his lords, so, yes, everyone calls me Stiles?”

Derek put his hand to his chest, “me too?” he asked.

Stiles nodded and Derek grinned and it was such a winning smile, so honest and it seemed to crinkle his eyes and it was easy to forget that he was the Hale beast when he smiled like a child on Christmas morn woken up to an orange or some other exotic thing that they only saw once a year. “Will you put this on me?” he asked, lifting the chain, he couldn’t sleep with it on, it would both destroy the necklace and the sheets, but it was a gesture. Perhaps if they could communicate without words.

“You like it?” Again Derek sounded very young and innocent.

“It is very beautiful.”

“Like you.” Stiles wasn’t sure Derek was capable of any kind of artifice, but he suspected it when Derek said that. Stiles wasn’t beautiful, he wasn’t unattractive, he wasn’t deformed or scarred or marred in a way that would make it awful to look at him. His skin was clear and his hair well kept, but he wasn’t beautiful. He was too broad in the shoulder and narrow in the hips, his thighs were thin and his hands bulky. He had been told that the only things that made him attractive were his fine eyes and soft mouth by the people who were in the court and placed to make such decisions.

But the compliment was still sweet to hear.

Derek stood up, wiping his fingers on the cloth that had covered the meal, and lifted the chain, he took careful steps until he was behind Stiles, and careful of his veil went to drape the chain over his neck, “wait.” Stiles said, “just a moment.” He stood up, and raised the pellote over his head, picking it up and folding it on the chair. So he just wore his cotehardie, and then with a deep breath, began to undo the laces at his side. “I think this will look better,” he said, and took a steadying breath, before he undid the laces at his sides, then at his neck, so he could simply step out of his cotehardie, picking it up and placing it on top of the pellote. It would not do to have them ruined.

Then just in his shirt, which ended at his knees where his hose started, with its soft loose sleeves, and the way it draped around his shoulders with the laces undone, because he didn’t like it tight about his neck. In many ways he felt more exposed like that than he would if he was completely naked. Then he pulled the pins from his veil and remove that too.

“Beautiful,” Derek said, and Stiles didn’t think he was lying. “Like this?” He asked.

“Like this,” he agreed.

Derek’s breath was hot against the bare skin of his throat as he placed the necklace there, running a finger against the edge of the _torc_.

Stiles couldn’t help but shiver at his touch before the weight and cold of the of the stones settled around his neck. It was probably accidental but the gesture dislodged his shirt so it fell around his ankles.

He shuddered with the sudden cold, and Derek ran his fingers along the line of his shoulder. “You said no,” Derek said then and stepped back.

Stiles blinked in questioning. “When?” He asked. With Derek gone from his back, Stiles felt cold and exposed.

“Before,” Derek repeated, “you were asleep,” he had clenched his fists at his sides, “you said no.”

Stiles thought it was appropriate, Derek could barely communicate and yet he understood consent, but Stiles couldn’t remember telling him no. But he could tell that Derek desired him, his eyes dragged over him, over the lines of his hips and the sweep of his waist. He seemed to want to reach out to touch but he believed Stiles didn’t want him to touch. Stiles could even see the tent in his pants.

Stiles reached out and took his hand, “let’s go to bed.” He said. “I’m not saying no, now.”


	13. Chapter 13

The baby was crying. The sound of it startled Stiles from his sleep and he swung his legs over the side of the bed and got up, but there was nothing in the cradle and when he looked up Kate was holding the baby, his baby, and she smiled before she dropped the child from the tower window to the stones below.

Stiles woke up with a gasp. He was pinned to the mattress by his husband’s bare arm, Derek had decided he did not wish to sleep in a shirt if Stiles was not and was now a sweaty lump pressed against his side. Derek was asleep, on his side, snuffling into Stiles’ neck, he had put his thigh across Stiles’ thigh and his foot draped between Stiles’ shins. He was hot and heavy and breathing wetly across Stiles’ ear. Stiles waking up so abruptly was tugging him from sleep. “Stiles," he murmured, and sort of burrowed a little deeper into the bed. 

Derek had decided that rather than consummating their marriage that first night that they would simply lie together because it was late and cold and Stiles needed the sleep. He wanted Stiles to understand the decision he made, and Stiles thought he was complicating what was a very simple prospect and agreed, and so the two of them had gotten into bed together, naked, then several minutes later Derek got back out of bed with a huffing sigh and picked up Stiles' hose and pulled them back on muttering about cold feet.

Strangely that gesture, of getting out of the warm bed to find the socks in their darkened room before tugging the curtains closed again so that the interior of the bed kept as much of the heat in as possible, had made Stiles feel safe with him.

As Derek struggled to wake, it was charming Stiles decided that Derek slept so soundly beside him, Stiles slithered out from under his arm and out of the bed. He tugged on his shirt, cold now and feeling almost wet from the chill of the ground, and pushed the poker into the fire to bring it back up. “Stiles?” Derek asked.

“A bad dream," Stiles said, turning back to him, “go back to sleep.”

"No," Derek said, bringing his legs around so he was sat behind where Stiles perched on the edge of the bed and wrapping his arms around him, "not time," Stiles didn't know if he meant it was too late to go back to sleep or too early to get up. There was no sign of Keziah coming in to open the shutters, but nor was there a line of light around it to suggest the sun was rising, but it was winter, and the sun rose later. If the monastery bells did not ring the hour there was no way to tell if it was morning or not yet, but the room was cool, the banked fire had stopped it getting truly cold, but it was still too chill to be sat pleasantly without layers of wool, even Derek's hounds, all four of them, were huddled in a corner on a rug with their eyes watching him from the slight glow of the fire.

When it became clear that the fire had caught again Stiles threw some branches from an unlashed faggot into it, that it rekindle without overwhelming it with the whole bundle.

Then, he went to climb back into the bed, “no," Derek said and put his hands up under the shirt, letting his cool hands, hands that had gotten cold from waiting for Stiles, on his skin with a chuckle, before pulling the shirt up over his head again, and tucking him back under the down mattress, patting it around him, and then kissing Stiles’ temple. “Stay,” Derek sounded very young as he said it. “Cold." He added.

“It’s just a bad dream," he repeated, “wine sometimes gives me bad dreams.” Derek made a noise, his hand, under the mattress was stroking up and down Stiles’ side, the furthest one from him. He was still on his side, his back to the window, and draped around Stiles like he was a hound protecting him. Stiles' head was not on his pillow, but instead on Derek's triceps. It was strange it made him feel safe, which surprised him because Derek was mostly a stranger to him.

Of all the things that Stiles knew he was sure that Derek would defend him to the death. It was part of the complicated meaning he gave to the word mine.

Stiles turned in Derek’s arms, pressing the bare skin of his chest against Derek’s. Derek had a smattering of black hair there, growing in a line between his pectorals and around his nipples. In the poor light from the fire, Stiles could see that now. Derek had coarse dark hair over his arms and thighs, thicker on his shins and on the top of his feet. Stiles, because he was an omega was mostly hairless, so the fact that Derek had a little dark hair on his big toes fascinated him. He tried his best not to look at the dark thatch between his thighs, blushing despite himself when he caught a glimpse of it.

His beard was softer than Stiles expected as he ran the tips of his fingers over it, then his lips and Derek's eyes crinkled in mischief as the tip of his tongue crept out to lick the tip of Stiles’ fingers.

When Stiles didn't pull his fingers away Derek ran his hand down Stiles' back, his own fingertips pressing against Stiles’ spine, rough and callused and a little cold but firm, then down to cup the meat of Stiles’ buttock, and allowing his fingertips to slightly part the cheeks of his ass. It felt scandalous.

Derek opened his mouth and sucked the tip of Stiles' finger inside, curling his tongue around it.

It was strange and new, and it seemed to pool in the base of his spine and in his cock, like most omega Stiles was aware of the function of his cock, and how mostly his pleasure was to be got in the service of his alpha, and he would enjoy what his alpha would do to him, because he was an omega and that’s what a godly omega did. Yet his cock stirred when Derek curled his tongue around the tip of his finger. And Derek knew it because he pressed this thigh, scratchy with hair, between Stiles’ own so Stiles could rub against it.

If Derek was aroused himself he did not seem to act on it beyond the way he tugged Stiles on to his tight that he could rock himself to orgasm.

Stiles pulled away his fingers and kissed his husband.

The church was divided on whether kissing was immoral or not, as it seemed to only exist to entice good godfearing alphas into sin, but within married couples then it was not a bad thing if kept in private. As Stiles understood it, gathered from gossip from the queen's court and her servants, kissing was a little scandalous and something they did in France.

The queen was French, so maybe she liked to be kissed.

Derek made a growl in the back of his throat and bent the arm that Stiles was resting his head on so that he could pull Stiles towards him, “mine," he repeated against Stiles’ mouth and kissed back.

Unlike Stiles Derek knew how to kiss, and he did so well, and with hunger, which suggested things to Stiles that he did not want to think about, like who Derek had kissed before him, when Stiles decided that he would take the initiative and do with his hand what Derek was doing with his, and cupped his fingers around the meat of Derek’s ass and pulled him up flat against himself.

Derek was erect, which only gave Stiles a moment’s hesitation, simply because it was so much larger than his own. He had known, intellectually, that alphas were larger, and had testicles, which Stiles as an omega did not, he could bear children instead, but his actual education had been scant.

He knew he could have children, had been present at a childbirth, and that he had courses which were inconvenient and messy, and when an alpha wanted their rights it was an omega’s role to not fight for fear of getting hurt. For all that omega were meant to lure alphas into sin they weren't said to be particularly desirous of the attention that they attracted, but Stiles didn't want to be scared of Derek. He was to an extent, for he was the Hale beast, but he did not want to be.

Stiles hitched himself up, using his grip on Derek's ass to do so, so that Derek's cock slipped between his ass cheeks, pushing against the slick that had gathered there.

Derek could not help himself, he thrust up into the heat and slight friction and the slick and groaned into his kisses. It felt more than Stiles had expected and the words felt slippy to him; like he was Derek and the words were hard and difficult to find. He was finding it hard to think, as the head of Derek's cock caught and tugged at his ass and he could not help but cry out because it felt so new and so much.

Derek turned him then, almost like he had leapt up, and pinned Stiles under him to the mattress, and pushed up with his hips, so the head of his cock, and only the head, was rubbing against his ass, and Derek was pressed up against him from jaw to toes because they were of a height and Derek wasn't much broader than Stiles himself was. “Mine," Derek said, pulling his mouth away from Stiles’ at long last to mouth at his neck, and leave a trail of fire where his beard had scratched and scraped, and he groaned when Stiles pushed his hips down, trying to catch Derek inside himself because it was too much and too new and he couldn't think. He wanted but he didn't know what he wanted, and then Derek's thumb caught his nipple and it was enough to push him over the edge of the plateau he felt caught on and he came with a yelp.

"Mine," Derek growled, sitting up then, pushing Stiles down so he was no longer almost bent double to give Derek access to his ass, and with a few jerks of his hand Derek brought himself to completion, adding his own seed to the mess on Stiles’ stomach.

Stiles lay for long moments trying to catch his breath, the bad dream forgotten.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the delay, i broke my laptop charger and then got hit by a huge cold  
> ideally I'm back up to productivity because I can blow my nose and write, and cough, and leak from the eyes  
> but before I was like a dead person  
> also being knee deep in the meta.....  
> that's why you don't get updates on mondays  
> I'll do my best to update twice tomorrow to get back on schedule

Derek had, taking Stiles being awake as both invitation and evidence of consent - not that Stiles was saying no- to spend the rest of the night teaching his young bride about the pleasures of the flesh.

Minutes seemed much longer when Derek's hands and mouth were on his skin, and he felt like it had been weeks since they had closed the curtains on the bed after Stiles’s bad dream.

The bed was not large, big enough that two grown people could sleep comfortably, but not so big that Stiles had felt it empty when he had slept there alone, and if he reached across he would touch both sides of the wooden frame, and with the curtains closed it felt much more intimate. There was the bed and it was their entire world.

So he felt free in a way he never had before, free to do what he wanted without the idea that anyone was judging him, except Derek who seemed eager, and if that meant taking Derek's cock whilst sat astride his hips, which was supposed to be enough for the earth to open up and suck him into hell, he was prepared to do it.

And he did do it, simply because it felt so good to do so.

And Derek, who had his knees bent behind Stiles to give him some support as he took his pleasure from Derek, secure that Derek was taking his pleasure from that even if he could not vocalise it other than grunts of mine, and attempts at Stiles’ name that sometimes caught in his teeth.

So with Derek's hands curled around his ankles Stiles took pleasure from his husband, and his cock and the warmth of his body and the noises he made and he was almost at the crest of his orgasm, feeling the build up of the knot within him, his first, when Keziah opened the door making sure to make a lot of noise.

She didn't speak, she just rattled the tray she put down on the small table, she dropped logs with a heavy clatter from the basket she brought hooked on her arm, before arranging them in the mostly dead fire on a wrapped faggot. Stiles knew this because this was what she had always done.

Stiles knew that Keziah could not see him.

He also knew that Keziah would not care, she would blush and apologise and despite being a matron on some years probably offer tips so he didn't hurt his back or hips.

Knowing that intellectually did not stop him bringing his hands up to his face and wanting the devil himself to open up the floor and drag him to hell because he was riding his husband, not just fornicating with him, which was to be expected, but committing a sin in the way they did it.

Stiles should have been on his knees, ass up and thinking of God and the scripture, he should have been hoping that this coupling was fruitful and he was very fertile and that he would be blessed with a baby.

He was thinking that he was going to die of shame and there was no way Keziah didn't know what he was doing right at that moment because she had always known when he was doing things he ought not to.

And as she ushered the dogs, giant war hounds capable of killing her easily, from the room with the mutterings they'd be wanting out, and that they wouldn't like it as there had been a snow in the night and that it was deep enough, but that was no excuse for them not to go out, and that there was a nice pot of old stew for them in the kitchen, clearly made with the leftovers from Derek's hunt, Stiles thought, and that Stiles wasn't to worry about his chores, she addressed this to the dogs, because they’d all be done for the day, if his lord wanted to keep him busy.

Stiles had thought that he would have died of mortification before, that he had reached the point where he couldn't be any more embarrassed. She proved him wrong with that last statement as she ushered the dogs from the room and closed the door behind herself.

Derek chuckled at Stiles’ mortification. His eyes crinkling with delight in the poor light that fell through the curtains. He sat up, moving the pressure of his cock within Stiles, and with the tips of his fingers, slightly chill, over Stiles' throat and down his chest. “Mine," he seemed to growl it like he was amazed and pleased and aroused all of the same time. He seemed to like that Stiles was so open in his embarrassment as he pulled his hands from his face to kiss him. Then he started to roll his hips, dragging his cock slowly into and out of Stiles, until the only thing holding him up was the bend of Derek’s knees.

As Derek kissed him his knot grew until he could no longer pull out and he circled his hips, grinding into the flesh of Stiles’ _poche_ , as the embarrassment was overwhelmed by pleasure and the inability to think when Derek did that and kissed him like that, and the hot wet slap of ejaculate within him, hot because Stiles was a little cold, despite the universe of their bed. “Mine," Derek was purring it out now, as satisfied as a cat who had stolen the cream intended for the butter, dragging the tip of his nose along the tendon in Stiles’ neck, and hands on his back, making slow strokes as Stiles rocked and chased his climax. Saying “mine" again when Stiles came, his fingers lightly tugging on the torc around Stiles’ throat.

After they eventually came apart, with Derek's come dribbling down Stiles' thigh until he got out of the bed, on the side with the fire because the room might be cold but he wasn’t taking the chance just in case and used a rag to wipe himself clean, with one leg on the mattress, so he could reach easier as Derek looked at him like he was supper and Derek wished to lick the plate.

Stiles kept out of his reach and lifted the breakfast tray bringing it to the bed. There was a bottle of watered wine, a large bowl of spiced porridge, clearly for them to share, a small loaf, with the soot-stained bottom cut away, a pat of butter, some hard cheese and two smoked fish on a plate. “She’s spoiling us," Stiles said putting the tray on the bed between them. The sheets already needed changing, a little butter on them couldn't be any worse than the state they were already in.

Once Stiles was in range Derek pulled him back into his lap, running his hand up to the coil of gold on his arm which Derek had given him, then started to feed Stiles. “I can do this," Stiles said, half laughing as the spoon kept coming to himself.

“Strong dam, strong pups," Derek said and the tone, which was mocking, might have been about the large breakfast, and Stiles couldn't help but laugh, because it was so out of nowhere and so funny and he was so completely pleased, a little hungry and a little cold, that he couldn't help but laugh.

“You talk," Derek said as he started to break apart the fish with his fingers, then popping a piece of it into Stiles’ mouth. “You talk," he repeated, “I eat.”

So as they ate, Stiles talked, it started about how embarrassed he had been, and how he wanted to check if it had snowed but it was so cold and he didn't want to get out of the bed yet, and how he was surely wicked for enjoying their coupling the way he had, which caused Derek to tug him tighter, with one arm wrapped around his stomach, when Stiles reached across to close the curtains.

“Are we going to stay in bed all day?” Stiles asked.

Derek considered it for a minute. “Yes," he answered proudly.

—-

They didn't spend the entire day in bed, and Stiles got to see the snow when he had to nip out to the privy. Keziah had changed the piss pot, so that wasn't something to worry about but visiting the privy meant putting on clothes, Derek's clothes which were easier to pull on, nipping down the back stairs and crossing the snowy courtyard to the privy, hoping no one had beaten him to it.

When he was sat on the wooden seat, wondering if it was possible to extend the privy a little more to include a little firepit, because it was the coldest place in the castle and the last place he wanted to drop his trousers, especially if he had to be there a while. Or maybe he could bring his psalter to read whilst in there. It was not an actual psalter, it said it was but it had a ballad about King Horn and his strange desire to throw people down wells. It had been a gift from the queen. He was at the point where Rymenhild was prepared to slay herself with a concealed dagger but he had been so busy, and so tired afterwards that he had not had a chance to read.

As he came out of the privy he made the decision, that with the day given to indolence and his husband, he would read the book to his husband. It was not likely he had heard of it because the story was English and had been paid for by the queen, but that decision made, and his hands washed down with snow melt from the fountain beside the privy, he turned and walked directly into Kate.


	15. Chapter 15

Kate was wearing a red cotehardie, shortened to avoid ruining the hem on the snow, but trimmed in gold thread. It was another of her dresses that looked too fine for a manor beside the sea four days ride from Edinburgh in good weather. She also had a heavy bear fur around her shoulders, and she had a veil over her hair, which she usually did not, even though it remained in twin braids, with red hair laces this time, either side of her face. More noticeably she had a woven band of silver metal with red sardonyx beads that looked incredibly expensive.

Stiles shook down the thought that Kate seemed like a very wealthy lady at court, perhaps her father fuelled her excess, or she inherited it from her father, but something about it nagged at him. Even her boots were fitted instead of being shoes with leather tied around her calves.

Stiles couldn't remember if the Argents were rich, the Hales were not, the manor had been in a state of casual disrepair suggesting it had been neglected for more than a single year. Stiles believed it had been neglected for all of Kate’s time as Lady Hale. She had, since Laura's death, become Mistress Hale and it seemed the title displeased her. Stiles had visited the nearby monastery to check how the title was to be applied.

She would have remained Derek’s ward because he was the alpha to whom she was most closely related, or Stiles would have encouraged her to return to her father. He wanted nothing more to do with her. The manor's servants were under instruction that if Kate asked them to do anything that was outside of their daily tasks that they were to refuse and cite Stiles as a reason. However. Kate’s own maid, Erica, had come with her from Edinburgh, like Stiles' own Keziah had, and Stiles had no power over her as she was Kate’s maid, not one of the household staff. That meant she was often seen with a red cheek or a split lip, but she wouldn't speak out against her lady.

“You look well today, Sister," Stiles said, attempting to be nice to her.

“I cannot say the same," she said looking Stiles up and down, “you are most inappropriate if Father Abbott was here he would be most scandalised.”

“I am not dressed for the day," Stiles answered, "I merely pulled on those clothes that would be most quick to dress in so I might make a call on the privy, I am sure that you noticed that I am stood outside it.”

“Nevertheless, brother, you are the Laird of the manor and you must represent the manor in all things.”

Stiles laughed. “Perhaps come summer this manor will look fine, it is barely into November, being only the second, and I have only just made it livable. It is strange, sister, that you served as lady here but you did not put the labourers to the simple tasks of maintenance. Many of the things that I set them about were made much more difficult because of that neglect.” His laughter was not a pleasant thing, and Kate’s lips thinned, her hand reaching up to tug on her braid. It seemed to be one of the things she did when she was faced with something she did not like but could not politely refute. Keziah laughed that enough time with Stiles and she’d be bald on the left side.

Stiles despised her.

“Was there something you wanted, Sister?” Stiles asked. “There is an inch of snow, the laborers are working taking shale from the beach to line the roads, the kitchens are working hard to create food to feed them as part of their pay, the maids are using the snow to scrub the hall floor, and I cannot think what else we might have to talk about, but I am cold, I am not dressed for spending the day in the snow, so if I am in your way to the privy, then I apologise, but if you have no business with me then please, let me pass. I am not wearing one of the Hale family furs against the snow, and I have a husband keeping my bed warm for me. I would like to return to him.”

“Little whore," Kate sneered.

“I am married and it is with my husband I am lying, I do not stand on street corners or trade my favours for wealth.” Something in the way Stiles said it seemed to hit Kate like an insult when it was not intended as such.

“Did you not marry for the Hale wealth?” She said through gritted teeth.

“I did not choose to marry, sister," Stiles said, “the king gave me to Lord Hale, I know nothing of his wealth, imagined or otherwise. I am but a simple omega, as long as I am warm and have food in my belly I am quite content with life.”

“How appropriate, a stupid bitch for the Hale beast to rut into,” Kate said, spitting the words out like they were poisonous in her mouth, her smile was ophidian as it slithered up her face.

It was held in place by the stinging slap Stiles delivered, the ring he had on his finger, the crown ring that had been part of his wedding coffer, slicing her face. “You might be my husband’s ward," he said crisply, “but you are a guest in our home. He has no obligation to keep you beyond kindness, it would cost nothing to have you in a convent, you are not an omega and thus denied church service. Speak so about my husband again and I shall rescind all kindnesses.”

“You think you can keep him satisfied, he’ll come crawling back to my bed, he always does, and that fancy new bed you brought with him, you’ll be glad of that fleece cover when it's all you have to keep you warm.”

Stiles didn't slap her again, he wouldn't give her the satisfaction. “Insult my lord again and I shall have his knights drag you into the courtyard, strip you to the waist and lash stripes into your back. You are his ward, that gives me the legal right to punish you like you were my own child. You are fortunate that I am indulgent.”

Kate laughed, “You don’t have the stones." She said.

“You're right," he answered sweetly, “as an omega I do not, however with that magical cunt as I know you have called it when you thought I could not hear, or perhaps intended for me to hear," she flinched when he said it, letting him know that it was true, “might have let him sire a child, and if he goes to your bed all you’ll do is give him bastards, and you turn up with child, Kate," he was almost snarling at her now, “you will end up in that monastery with all of Edinburgh told how you lay with a laborer, so even if the king himself told me to request your return your reputation would be ruined, and there are so many children in the manor, and it would be simple Christian charity for me to raise the baby as if it was mine and my husband's.”

Kate raised her hand to strike him but Stiles caught it, she tried to jerk it back. “Now as I said, you are in my way.” Kate took a step back allowing Stiles to walk past as the four hounds, each coming to Stiles' waist, made a point of standing beside him.

 

When Stiles went back into the bedchamber, with the dogs just behind him, the heat prickled against his skin like tiny needles his skin was so cold, and he let Derek wrap himself around him. Derek seemed questioning as he nuzzled into the place in Stiles' braid where it had come a little loose during the night. “Long time.” He said.

“Yes,” Stiles said, pushing his fingertips against Derek's lips, “there was a wait for the privy.

"Oh husband," Stiles said after a few moments, “just a silly thing, when Isaac gave me the keys," he looked across to where his chatelaine hung by the fire, “two were missing, the one for the solar, I need somewhere warm to keep my records in, I feel the cold most keenly, and if it is warm I can also practice my harp, I do not think you have heard me play," he offered him a smile, “I'd like you to hear me play.”

Derek grunted out an agreement.

“And Harris, he won't give me access to his books. I cannot figure out where the wealth that we are getting from our tenants is going, I sent Parrish to check with the bailiffs and Boyd to check with the tenants, but without seeing what the manor uses I cannot see what is happening. It might be we are simply massively overpaying for something, or not getting near good enough a deal for wool, we can barely afford to keep our spinsters, he has said he will only unlock the manor stores by your command, will you tell him to let me in.”

Derek just nuzzled against his throat. Stiles had no intention of using Derek but something in the way Kate had spoken made him perhaps more manipulative than he had meant to be when he asked for that information. Kate was always dressed expensively, she had new linen veils and woollen gowns whose dyes always looked new and fresh, and were embroidered with expensive details. Then Derek tugged on his earlobe with his teeth and it made it hard to think.


	16. Chapter 16

Two days after the lazy day they had spent in bed word came in the night that there were raiders sighted two days ride to the north and they needed to be intercepted.

Derek woke him before dawn, kissing him softly and sweetly, and Stiles was a little upset to find that Derek was already dressed in his leather and mail, but into Stiles' hand Derek pressed a key. “The Solar," he said, “be safe." Then he kissed Stiles again, and Stiles had no idea if he had spoken to Harris about access to the manor's books. Then, still clutching the key in his hand, he went back to sleep.

When he did rise to go about his chores, he tied the key to his chatelaine, it was the one for the solar he was aware of that, which means it would need to be cleaned and at the chimney swept before it could be heated to become a room he could use, so he unlocked the room on his way down to the kitchens, going in to remove the shutters from the windows to reveal tiny circular panes of glass held together with strips of lead.

It was beautiful. The walls had been plastered and painted to show summer scenes of warm blue skies and scudding clouds, and trees, two of which framed the fireplace. The rugs, which were deep brown dyed sheepskins stitched together, was a little mouse eaten, but it could be repaired, and it looked like a soft carpet of loam in the room, and Stiles was surprised by how lovely the room was. There was a shelf, upon which were two books, but they were under a heavy layer of dust, and a work table upon which were instruments for writing, and what had, at one point been a grain ark that was at least in part repurposed as a bench with a velvet cushion, although it was now ruined thanks to years of neglect and a family of mice who seemed to call it home. When Stiles opened the grain ark to see if it held anything he found bushels of dried herbs.

Derek's _maman_ , an omega Stiles knew almost nothing about, had been a healer. When he had checked the two books, which were a little warped from persistent damp and that the room had been unused, he saw that the omega had kept diligent notes about the treatments they learned and used and how well they had worked. There was a page just recording the births in the manor and it's nearby villages, and sometimes there were notes that the omega had attended and Talia was unhappy that he had been out all night holding the hand of a labourer's wife as she struggled through a labour when they themselves was large with child.

The books could be restored, a warm iron would allow him to press the pages flat, restoring the parchment back to its original state, whilst also darkening the ink. Parchment, if it got too hot, would turn sheer like fine linen, so he knew to be careful, and tucked the two books into his apron. He would have Heather check the herbs and bring them to Deaton who had returned with Derek from the Holy Land, to tell them what they were, and use Laird Hale's notes to treat them.

He could add mild medical treatments to the manor, and attend at birth to his duties. He wanted to make Derek proud of him, and that quite surprised him, so delighted that Derek had unlocked the solar for him he went into the kitchen, he could put linen cuffs on his cotehardie and do kitchen chores beside the fire with everyone else, even if it was only turning the spit and basting the meat that was cooking.

Harris came to him in the kitchens, looking pale and sweaty like he might be afflicted with a fever. “His lordship got me from my bed this morning," he spat out, “said you wanted access to the books, I can't believe the insult, I have served the Hales faithfully this last twenty years.” His skin looked a little grey and he looked exhausted. “Here," he slapped the key down on the table.

“Master Harris," Stiles said, “you look very unwell, if you have no pressing duties that you cannot pass over to your apprentice then I shall recommend you go to your bed and have that boy that helps you fetch Master Deaton.”

"I’m fine," Harris said, wiping his forehead.

“You are very much not fine," Stiles said, “Heather," he called across the kitchen, “can you make some of the dandelion and burdock tea for Master Harris, and load it with honey, he looks positively unwell.” Stiles took the key and tied it to his belt.

“I have served Lord Hale both man and boy, for twenty years I have served him, and I have never spent a day in my bed because of sickness, and I shan't start now.”

“There is a first time for everything," Heather groused as she brought over a cup of boiling water into which she had dumped a small portion of the dried herbs. It was a tea that was pleasantly sweet and the honey that he had seen her add would do much to help Harris feel better.

“Perhaps Master Harris," Stiles said, “you might be better set if you take my seat here by the fire, you are shivering.” He pressed the beaker of tea into his hands, “I shall take the books and we can look over them together.

“At first it didn't cost anything," Harris was slurring his words to himself, “then it was little things, but it just kept," he stumbled unto the stool where Stiles had been sitting. "I just," he said.

"I’ll be right back," Stiles said, “I won't let anyone into the stores who shouldn't be there.”

He hitched up his skirts to go to the stores, which were underneath the great hall but down a locked door on the other side from the kitchen.

When he came back with the books under his arm, Harris was resting his head on his hands on the table. “You should return to your bed, Master Harris, you seem much more unwell," he put his hand on Harris’ arm to shake him and it felt strange, leaden, “Master Harris," he repeated. Harris remained immobile. “Master Harris," he said a little louder and shook him hard.

But Master Harris was dead.

—-

Isaac, the steward of Dubhfaolain, was one of the men who carried Harris’ body out to the laundry that he might be prepared for death, whilst Harris’ boy, with nose and eyes streaming, and no older than Stiles himself, weeping and unsure of his position without his master to teach him, went to the monastery to fetch a brother who would perform the funeral, and would have a small cell in the manor that he could manage the manor's small chapel for the servants, the Hales, and the village. It was one of the more unusual aspects of _Dubhfaolain_ that they did not have one.

It was likely that they had saved money by refusing to pay the usual stipend for one, but Stiles had paid for a year himself.

As two of the spinsters, called in from the village, prepared Harris’ body for burial, washing it clean, then wrapping it in old linen which they would then stitch shut so he could be buried cleanly, and two of the laborers built a fire that they might soften the ground enough to be able to dig a grave, Stiles took the opportunity to sit at the main hall table, in front of the fire and laid out the books.

Stiles could have kissed Harris; if he had not been dead. Harris kept his books immaculate, if he had found a way to have listed each grain of wheat or barley he would have, weighing each sack as soon as it arrived and making sure they were mostly consistent. He did the same for the wool, working out the rents the crofters paid, against the price he paid for the raw fleeces, then how much the spinsters paid him for the carded roving, after that was done by the laborer's wives for a price, and the slight profit made each time so that by the time the wool was spun into cloth the labor was long since paid for.

But best of all he kept the receipts for each and every one of Kate’s purchases, her fine hose, and gowns, her girdles and headbands, even her gloves. There was a bearskin, and he had even worked out how much it cost to keep her, and written, scrawled _really, is it worth it? She will never love me, I sacrifice everything, I have taken everything this_ manor _has to spare and then some to make her happy, she will never be happy._

He had then, in one of the covers of the book, kept a detailed list of their assignations and meetings, and how much he gave her at each one.

Kate had been stealing from the manor since at least Laura's death and Harris recorded everything.

How convenient it was for her that he had died so suddenly when forced to give up his books, although she couldn't suspect how much he had written down.

“Keziah," he said to his nurse, who had sat with him and was spinning quietly. “Fetch Sir Boyd," Parrish had accompanied Derek on his journey, “Lady Kate will be moving to the monastery today, as soon as possible. He is to come to me that we can make this happen.”

“Can I ask why, lamb, he is sure to ask me, it can't be the rumour that she’s a witch and cursed that poor wardrober? you know better than to believe such nonsense.”

Stiles couldn't help himself, he laughed. “She's not a witch, nan,” he said, “she’s a thief who used that poor man to get all the shiny pretty things she wanted until the place was damn near broke. She is to go to the monastery, tied up over a horse if she has to, and her belongings will go back into the stores until we get a chance to sell them."


	17. Chapter 17

As Kate was a noble lady, by marriage even if one discounted her relationship with her father, Boyd’s only concession to her not being tied up, gagged and thrown over the back of his horse, other than the worry that she might bite the horse and try and get them both thrown was that she have the right to face her accuser.

This meant her being dragged, by the arm, down the stairs and into the main hall, whilst she cursed everyone who so much as caught her eye.

“What nonsense is this?” she asked, leaning down on the flat of both hands on the table, her hair had, for once, been properly veiled and tucked under a coif, but there was no jeweller, just the pins to secure her veil, and her usual plethora of bracelets, necklaces were gone. Even her expensive girdles had been taken.

She was dressed in a simple brown kirtle with a tunic pulled over it, like a nun.

“These are the books Harris keeps," Stiles did not know if she knew that Harris was dead, she did not seem to care either way. “It has a very specific picture of theft, and with my husband absent, it falls on me to treat that, he keeps amazing records, each of your trysts with the date and time, and what it was you requested in exchange for his time. He wrote an entire diary explaining how he feels about it.”

“So,” she shrugged, “he stole from you, what has that to do with me.”

“A few days ago, you accused me of accepting the marriage in order to get to the Hale wealth. I do not know the terms of your marriage, however, considering you are yet to even ask of Harris," she rolled her shoulders with a shrug, “suggests the reason you went to his bed was simply for the things he could give you, things which were not his to give, had the jewellery been from the allowance of Hale goods and you simply borrowed them then I would not have the accusation of theft to lobby you against him.”

Kate narrowed her eyes at him, “theft?” she asked.

“And adultery, of course, some of the staff thought I should add the accusation of witchcraft, the testimony of Dr Deaton in regards to the injuries sustained to your maid.”

“That girl is a liar.” Kate growled out. “She makes simple discipline sound like I am torturing her.” She scoffed.

“You like to put coins in the fire grate," Stiles said, “and press them against her skin, that is not discipline, that is cruelty. I decided to choose to overlook them. So you are going to be taken to the monastery, where you will be placed in a penitent's cell and treated like a penitent. When my husband returns,”

“When your husband returns," Kate cut him off, “he shall take me out of that monastery and restore my place to me, he’s always desired me,” she was gloating, “he’ll send for me, and you will know why he did it, because he always does.”

"Kate," Stiles said calmly, “I am trying very hard to be a good person, and you are making it very hard for me. For the crimes I can prove against you I can have Boyd take you from here and hang you, even as a member of the family. It is to protect my husband I do not. If I told the father abbot I thought you were a witch you would be subject to Brother Matthew,” at that Kate paled, “before being strangled over the bridge wall over the river and dumped into the water, before they dragged out your corpse and burned it. I am trying to be kind in this," he said, “Boyd, take her out of my sight before I change my mind.”

To his credit Boyd did, taking her spitting profanities and insults from the room. After she was gone Stiles grabbed the table and tried to get the room to stop spinning. It felt like the floor had lost a little of its axis and his heart was beating wildly. He was safe. He repeated, he was safe, he would come to no harm. He would come to no harm.

He was exhausted when the paroxysm passed. His legs feeling like wet string, and he was halfway down the steps to the kitchens when Heather caught him. “Are you well, my lord?” she asked.

"I," Stiles started, intending to tell her that he was fine, that a cup of tea would be wonderful, that he just needed a moment, but instead he just started to sob.

She bundled him up on the stool by the fire, pulling out her mother’s trundle bed and having him sit on it. Her mother, seeing his distress, fetched him hot milk with a little nutmeg and a spiced honey cake from her coffers, then she sent Heather to find Keziah.

Stiles used the linen cuffs that were over his sleeves over his cheeks, to wipe the worst of the wetness away. She pushed away his hand and used the edge of her apron, soft with years of work, to clean his face. “You have had a very busy day, lamb,” she said softly, and when Stiles opened his mouth to speak to her again he devolved into sobs. She decided not to wait for Keziah and pulled him against her bosom and let him sob until he was done, knowing that she might lose her hand for the presumption, but offering it anyway.

 

When the weeping storm had subsided he went to his bedroom where he picked up his embroidery, a kerchief that his husband could carry, but probably wouldn’t, that had little lavender flowers on it, but he didn't feel like he had the strength to manipulate the needle. He just sat with it in his hands in front of the fire and let the world slide past him.

The bed, when he climbed into it, felt strangely large and empty, right up until Bronagh nosed open the curtains and climbed up beside him. Stiles had been so busy he had not realised that Derek had left her behind. She must have spent the day with Isaac, who slipped her honeyed nuts from his pouch when he thought no one was looking. She might not have trusted Isaac but she followed him around like a lamb in the hope of more of the candied treat.

Bronagh lay on top of the down bed and rested her head, as large as Stiles’ down and as heavy as Derek's’ arm, on his chest. "It's been a rough day, pup," he said, ruffling her hair.

Bronagh sighed like she knew exactly what he meant, and it was listening to her whiffling snores that Stiles fell asleep.


	18. Chapter 18

The day after Kate left Stiles would not leave his bed. He claimed ill health but just lay there, Bronagh at his side, he picked at the food they brought him, taking little more than a few mouthfuls, and let the hound eat the rest.

Bronagh was the size of a small horse, coming up to Stiles’ waist when they walked together, with thick wiry brown and black fur and sharp black eyes. She had the ability to look at people like she was sizing them up for meat and Stiles knew she wasn't a lapdog, she was a hound, used for his husband's patrols of the land.

When she walked on stone instead of the light skitter Stiles was used to from the queen's dogs there was a heavy slap scrape noise, and when she butted him from the side he moved, because if he didn't he would have fallen.

When he went to the privy she whined until she was convinced he was wearing enough layers, so he pulled on a kirtle made of thick wool broadcloth, a cape around his shoulders, and a cloak over that, and then with a sigh and a fine a wool cap over his hair and ears although he would only be outside for a few moments. In a moment of impishness he could not have said where from it came, he tugged one of the knitted scarves that Keziah had made for him and wrapped it around the hound's thick neck, around and around until it was all used up, and tucked the ends in so she would not step on them and trip.

The dog, rather than try to pull it from her neck with her feet, rolled her shoulders, decided she quite liked it and went to the door to accompany Stiles to the privy.

When Stiles returned, climbing back into his bed, he had removed the kirtle, but not the heavy hose, the cap on his head or the fingerless mittens he wore.

He felt cold inside, and tired, the sort of tired he could not quite explain, but he didn't sleep, he just drowsed and let the world slip by.

Keziah tolerated it for two days, then she decided enough was enough and rather than just trying to coax him from his bed, took the down comforter from it, and refused to give it back.

She made him wash, and brushed his hair, dressing him in the warm broadcloth kirtle, before putting his boots on him, his hair neatly braided to form a crown about his head, before pulling on his woollen cap again. Then she kissed his forehead. “The manor is running a little short of branches for faggots, young Heather was wanting to fetch them from the woods beside the manor, you and that handsome knight could accompany her, give her a hand, give that dog some exercise, like she doesn’t think herself the queen herself with that new scarf of hers. I have an old shawl she might like better.”

Stiles offered her a tired smile. "I’m tired, Keziah," he told her.

“Tired doesn't stop the sun rising in the East," she chided him, “staying in bed because you're tired lets the house fall apart again and you've done so much work. The solar is almost complete again, and then you can be the laird, and before you know it the manor will have to be dressed for Christmas. I know you're tired, lamb, but some fresh air will do you the world of good.”

He offered her a smile as she tied a shawl over his chest before so the wool crossed over, and tied at the back. “We’ll get you lovely and warm." She said, offering him thicker gloves than the ones that he had worn before. “You've been cooped up in here since you got here, you've not been outside the walls, it's no wonder that you're tired, love.” She was so calm and firm about it Stiles didn't want to correct her that he was the Laird, that he was meant to be the one telling people what it was they were supposed to do.

The weather outside the window did look clear, and the light had that weird quality that it did when there was snow resting on the rooftops. “Boyd," Stiles said finally, “the knight my lord left, his name is Boyd.”

Keziah smiled, “young knight Boyd is the talk of many of the kitchen maids, even Elspeth has a thing or two to say about his broad shoulders and tight,”

“Keziah," Stiles protested, his face going red, “Elspeth's almost ready to have her baby.”

“She still has eyes, leannan," she said, “and I may be old, but the parts of me that can appreciate a fine alpha are not behind me, my eyes aren't that dim yet, and that alpha of yours, why he looks like he came down from Heaven itself, that waist, those thighs, my, my," she gestured fanning herself. “You are a lucky omega indeed, my love.”

Stiles sighed, "I don't know, Keziah, I," he exhaled slowly. “I,”

Keziah placed her hand on his knee. Years of work had roughened and reddened the skin and made the knuckles seem larger and the skin thinner. Stiles often forgot that Keziah had gotten old in his service, she had been the nurse of a lady who was grown when Stiles was a bairn and needed someone capable of raising him for the queen, although he had been weaned when he came into her service.

“Lamb," she said in that calm voice that made him feel safe like she understood everything. “You were taken from the world that you knew, you were taken on a journey to a place you had never been, and because it was your responsibility to look after this place you started the process of getting it together, then your husband appears and that witch discovered exactly what to say to get under your skin. Do not feel bad that you offered her such mercies when I saw what she had done to poor wee Morag I would have given her to the Abbot for burning.” Keziah was fierce when she needed to be.

When Stiles had been very young they had gone into the town for some reason that Stiles could not remember and they were piling up the kindling for a witch burning in the street, and Keziah had dragged him past by the arm, hard enough that she bruised him. “Fire hurts, lamb," she said, “so you only do it to those the lord can't redeem," and she had lit a taper and brought it to his hands so he could feel the heat of it. “But you don't glory in what the lord has forced you to do, you pray for the poor soul because they’ll die in torment.” It had taken what seemed like an eternity for the burn to fade. It had been why he hadn't given Kate over to the bishop, because he remembered Keziah's lesson, that fire burned and burning hurt.

He made the decision then to go into the forest with Heather, the manor used an almost endless amount of faggots, and so they needed branches, things fallen from trees as much as those stripped from trees cut down for wood. It was one of those chores that in fine weather people fought over, and usually went to someone who could be spared in the running of the house, like the scullery boy with the strict admonition to be back before a certain time and with as much wood as he could carry or the witch of the hills would take him, but the witch of the hills was a fairy tale used to scare the boy from goofing off.

It would do him good, Stiles decided, to get out of the manor, to explore the wood, and if Boyd was to accompany them, he could do most of the carrying.


	19. Chapter 19

The winter air was bright and sharp, although Stiles was heavily wrapped up against the chill, he could feel it in his finger tips, exposed as they were, and swirling around his ankles despite his thick felt hose. Where the snow in the manor was mostly tamed, and the labourers had carried barrels of shale from the beach at the base of the road and gritted the roads, knowing come spring when the mud was soft the small stones would sink into it to make a firmer surface for the wagons to roll on. Stiles had not told them to do that, it seemed to be something that one of them thought up to please him.

Bronagh walked like she was preening, with her head held high and mincing steps, like she was proud of the scarf and how wonderful she looked at it. When Boyd went to pat her on the head she bared teeth, as long as Stiles’ fingers, at him thinking he might remove it. Boyd just opened a jar of candied chestnuts and offered a few of them to the dog.

It seemed that Bronagh might have been Derek's hound, but she treated his knights with a common discourtesy and they had learned that she had something of a sweet tooth and prepared for it. They were not above bribing her.

Boyd, like Derek, was little given to conversation. He preferred horses to people as he considered most people to be annoying creatures designed to pester him with questions he didn't want to answer. He had pulled on a thick tunic, and over it wore a jerkin, there were flares at the shoulder but no sleeves other than the ones of his tunic, and it flared a little at his waist over his belt.

He wore thick woollen pants that ended at his knees, and heavy hobnailed boots that went up his calves to the point where his trousers came to an end. Over that he wore a cloak, like Stiles, made of goat’s wool, which was warmer and more water resistant than sheep’s wool, but was much more resistant to dye, with a hood, over his shoulders underneath his cloak but so the headpiece fell down his back, and a wool cap. In contrast, Heather simply wore her dress, a pair of pampooties over her usual boots to keep the worst of the wet out, and a cloak that ended at her knees, that had clearly been hers from childhood. She wore a wool cap and had a device that strapped to her back which would allow the twigs to be tied into place to make them easier to carry. Stiles was left carrying his trug, which was full of string made from the stripped bark from the trees cut down for lumber.

In the manor, as much for thriftiness as need nothing went to waste that could be reused, from the ammonia in urine, nightsoil used as fertiliser, bark twisted into twine, left over straw no longer good for bedding was used to line the snow to prevent people slipping. There was much more waste in Edinburgh so Stiles was often surprised by how clever they were in their reuse of things.

When they had walked for a long time, Heather brightly pointing out things as they passed, landmarks, the tracks of a winter predator, and Bronagh following behind them like some sort of mythical monster. Stiles wondered that if not for her blue scarf, the wode colour long since washed out from years of use if he might have mistaken her for a bear, Boyd started the business of building a fire that they might have a central location to come back to so as to take the chill and stiffness from their fingers.

Because Stiles was used to Bronagh and her brothers he tended to forget that she was very dangerous, she was a large, long haired breed from Europe that had been brought back from the journeys to the Holy Land by the Argents but how Derek came to command their loyalty so completely Stiles did not know.

Bronagh was a war dog, even if she didn't look like it now, preening her way through the snow, with her eyes wary and her mouth hanging open to let her tongue loll out.

But if someone came near them, Bronagh would not hesitate to help Boyd protect them.

Keziah had been right, Stiles decided, taking the twine from its sackcloth backing and laying it out near the fire, then stretching his fingers out to warm the stiffness from them. It always surprised him how quickly they became stiff and heavy. As an omega, he had been coddled in Edinburgh, moved from heated room to heated room, trained to play the harp which needed delicacy in his hands, so his hands had been kept warm.

In Edinburgh he never would have been allowed to wander in the woods to pick up sticks to make faggots with.

Heather didn't' seem to notice how cold it was, despite that she was much less wrapped against the cold than either Stiles or Boyd, but she was just laughing and joking as they set up.

Boyd told him he would prefer if Stiles remained by the fire with Bronagh and bound the twigs and sticks into faggots so that he wouldn't get too cold, and for a moment Stiles considered it. “No, it’ll go quicker with three of us," he said, “and Bronagh won't let me come to harm.”

Boyd didn't seem happy about it but he did agree, letting Stiles go off on his own, as much as by himself someone could be when accompanied by a very loyal war dog.

He was unused to solitude, there had always been Keziah or one of the other maids, or one of the ladies of the queen's court with him, he was an omega, he might be compromised if he was alone, and when he came to Dubhfaolain it was made worse because of the manor's need, he was so busy that he never had a moment alone, even at night Keziah had slept in his room.

So this was new and exciting and a little frightening, he could walk among the trees, listening to the snow crunch under his feet, bending now and then to pick up sticks, putting them into the crook of his arms, shoving them in as hard and tight as he could and for the first time since he left Edinburgh he could breathe.

For a moment he cast his head back and let the sunlight fall on his face, ruddy as it was from the cold, and filled his longs and felt free.

So when he returned to the fire to dump his load of branches, he was eager to go back out. No wonder, he thought, Derek loved to hunt, there was no one demanding his opinion or his time, no one to belittle him or question his orders, he didn't have Isaac trying to countermand him or poor dead Harris, may god watch over his soul, refusing him access to the stores so he couldn’t tally the accounts, and knowing that there was so little food that the servants had been stealing, until Stiles had agreed to feed them, and there was all that responsibility, but right now it was Dubhfaolain, and the forest, and in the forest none of it mattered.

Keziah had been correct. A walk in the woods had done him good, and he was so disinclined to return that Boyd complained that they had gathered half of the loose wood in the forest, when he pulled the pack up over his shoulders, it was packed far too tight and heavy for Heather to carry easily, to carry. It was so heavily loaded with twigs, tied together for form faggots, that it stood clear up over his head and it was only the way it was tied that it did not collapse.

He had, despite the cold, which he felt most keenly, very much enjoyed his day, although he would not enjoy Keziah rubbing rose oil and left over cream into his skin to help protect it against his cold. He was the laird of a small manor in the highlands by the sea, no one would care if he aged quickly because of the harshness of the land, but she still treated him like he was an omega of the Queen's court.

It was a chore but it made her happy, so he put up with it for her, even as he steadfastly ignored that part of him that wondered if Derek would want him to be pretty.


	20. Chapter 20

Stiles did not bother to cover his hair demurely when he got back to the manor, he pulled off the wool cap and scratched his fingertips through his hair where it felt hot and sweaty, even before he started to unwind his cloak and cape to hand them to a waiting girl, who offered him a fur collar in exchange. The gloves stayed as his hands hurt they were still so cold. He called for hot wine, and hot bricks for his feet.

There was a man sat at the table in rags, curled over a cup of boiling water. Stiles did not remember that he had offered an open door to beggars, but when Bronagh pushed past him she lolloped over to the man. “You must be the new Laird," he said, finally throwing back his hood. "I’m Peter.”

There were burn scars all along the right side of his face, and he wore black wool on his wrists but there was something in the way he held the cup which struck Stiles as being strange, he held it between both palms, in a way that suggested that he wanted more than just the heat from the ceramic. His eyes were a pretty blue, and what hair he had was Hale dark, but his lips were scarred like someone had run a knife over them again and again, even after the burning. “Derek's uncle?” Stiles asked, trying to remember what he knew of the Hales. There had been a fire in an inn on the way to Edinburgh and only Laura and Derek had escaped it. He knew that their uncle, that must be this man, had gone to France to visit one of their monasteries for healing he could not get in Scotland, but with what little Stiles knew there was about the Hale family, and how little he had asked, he hadn't pressed it.

“I’m Stiles,” Stiles said, sitting at the table. “Welcome to _Dubhfaolain_.”

“The last I came here," Peter said, and there was a gravel in his voice that suggested pain when he spoke, and one of his front teeth was broken now that Stiles looked. This was, now he had the opportunity to really look, to catalogue the details, was a man who had been tortured, and strangely about his hands, the tips of his thumbs had been cut away at the knuckle, making it almost impossible for him to grip with either hand, “someone sent me away, but I gained word at my lodging that you cast out the Argent bitch.”

“You were politer her about her than I.” Stiles told him, “did anyone offer you food?”

“Yes, thank you." Peter said, “I won't stay," he said, “this hasn't been my home for a long time.” When he undid his cape there were alms medals on his tunic.

"It could be,” Stiles said.

Peter’s laugh was a cold thing, like frozen wood snapping and cracking in someone's hands. “I have things to do, little one.”

“You want revenge for what Argent did, didn't you?”

Peter’s laugh this time was warmer, but not by much. “Clever little thing, and dear to my nephew if he left his hellhound to watch over you." Bronagh just catted up against his leg and put her head on the table beside his cup. “Pretty little hellhound aren't you?” Bronagh just whined at him.

“I," Stiles started, “I don't know what the did but I already hate them just because of the weeks I spent with Kate. Her father, I am told, pressured the king so much to win my hand that the king gave me to your nephew instead. I am told that he sent a raven to Dubhfaolain so your nephew and his loyal men would arrive before he announced it to the court because he feared that Argent might take what he wanted regardless. I also know if the king acted openly against Argent the other lords would rise against him, so he had to act in a way that was beyond complaint. Hence your nephew.” When Peter raised his eyebrow, split as it was, at him, the one on the right was swallowed by scar tissue, Stiles shrugged. “I was in the queen's court, people forget that means I was plugged into the gossip, and I play the harp, so I was often in the room where the important people made the decisions, that and I've had time to think.” He admitted.

“Clever little princess as well as pretty," Peter seemed delighted, “in another universe," he lifted his hand, the rags on his arms falling away from his wrists, “you are wasted on my nephew.”

“Why?” Stiles asked, “Parrish tells me he is a good man in his way, but will not tell me why in his way, and Boyd just changes the subject amazingly deftly for someone who talks so little. He can barely talk and gets worse the longer we are together as if the emotions make the words tangle even worse in his own head. I am a piece in a game I cannot see the board of, and I do not care for it. I am aware that I am a piece but I think you have information and I want it.

“You have a place here, Uncle Peter, that I am not holding back from you," Peter scratched at his chest, the alms medals on his chest jangling at the gesture. It was a discordant noise and quite ill-suited to the manor. “But I might be able to help, the more you tell me the more I can help.”

“Aren’t you delightful," Peter said, and then pushed his cup into the middle of the table, “and what makes you think you can help?”

“I know the queen,” Stiles said, "I was part of her household, I might know things that I do not know if they are important.”

“Tempting, little one, but I will tell you, my dear, simply because you are family now.” Heather brought in a jug of steaming hot red wine, spiced with mace and cloves and sweetened with slices of apple, that floated on top.

“Uncle Peter," she said delightedly, “Mama did not tell me you were here.” She went across to kiss his face, she was not in the slightest offended by his scars, she did not flinch when he kissed her back on the cheek. Stiles was not sure he would have done the same. Peter might have been a handsome man before whatever it was that they had done, but he was not now.

Now he was terrifying, even if he did not intend to be.

Heather treated him like a beloved family member. She had always shied away from Derek when he was there, but Peter she was quick to embrace. “Tell me that Mama got you a big bowl of the mutton pottage she’s making, there are honey cakes in the jar, I can fetch you one. I must get you another jar of wine, and get you a room made up, I am sure Parrish will not mind, he is not here, and water boiling so you can bathe, I know you don't like to be dirty, where is Isaac? we’ll get new clothes for you, oh tell me you’ll be staying, please Peter, it is almost Christmas, you can leave after twelfth night if you must, but at least let us put some meat on your bones.”

“How can I deny such a pretty girl anything?” Peter said, kissing the back of her hand like she was a lady at court and he was kissing her ring. When she pulled back there was a coin in her hand and she laughed in delight.

“It used to be candies," Heather said, as she pushed the coin into her sleeve, “don't think I don't remember.”

“Your ma is much better at hiding them now,” he said, “and I’m sure a lovely lass like you is working on her wedding chest and needs all the coins she can get. Now get you back to the kitchens, before I decide a lovely lass like you needs to marry me.”

She laughed in offended delight before kissing him again and going back to the kitchens with a swing in her step she had not had before.

“Are you sure you will not stay?” Stiles asked.

“A few days perhaps," Peter said, “unfortunately I have a house to tear down.”

“If you tell me what happened I might be able to help, I don't know if I can do anything but offer you shelter and food right now," he said, “and that I'd do regardless because of your name.You will get what I have to offer, but I don’t know what else I have to offer.”

“Laura would not behave," Peter said calmly, “the Argents were conveniently placed to swoop in and adopt Laura and Derek, they were only children," he spat the words out. They think we have some great fortune hidden, or perhaps they just want our port, such as it is. Talia, my sister, had influence in court that he lacked and he despised her for it. So he killed her,” Peter said it with a certain amount of venom, cold and quiet. “He killed her, her mari, and three of her children, then he took the other two, Laura and little Derek, and he tried to raise them as his own, with his own twisted ideologies. Laura would not behave, a little wolf cub she was, fierce, so he beat her. When that didn't work he threw Derek to his dogs.”

Stiles stopped breathing.

“He expected the dogs to kill him of course, but Bronagh's dam had just whelped and had her pups taken from her, I don't know why- I got the story from Laura before they killed her. He forced her to marry Kate and then paid the fine for not having asked the king. He considered it a small price.” Peter accepted the cup of hot wine that Stiles poured him, holding it between both hands.

“Bronagh's dam raised Derek, he was little more than a bairn when she got him, raised him like he was one of her own, fed him the same scraps that they were fed.”

Stiles flinched like he had been struck, and when Laura didn't do what Argent wanted her to do he starved them, unable to openly act against her he used Derek to do it instead. If she behaved the dogs were fed, and don't mistake it, they were fed on scraps and waste, better was fed to his pigs, and even then when Laura defied him he had Derek taken from the dogs and beaten. Only then one day the dogs turned on their handlers. I don't know why, only Derek truly does but, they tore them apart," Bronagh made a huffing noise under his hand where he had stopped scratching behind her ears. “They stopped being Argent's dogs and became Derek's pack. When Laura became old enough she went to Edinburgh and sent Derek to the holy land with the hounds.

“Laura was cunning and brilliant, she left Kate here and moved against Argent in court, when she returned here she fell sick and died, I have no doubt that Kate killed her.”

"Kate was embezzling the manor's funds,” Stiles blurted out, “she was bedding Harris that he would give her what she asked for.”

“Kate and her magical cunt," Peter sneered, “Harris wasn't the only one, we've weeded a few out over the years, but Harris, that was clever of her, we wouldn't have looked at him.” He stopped scratching Bronagh just long enough to fumble with his wine, it seemed more practised than Stiles would give him credit for. “I was just another way to get Laura to fall in line. Laura, though,” He smiled to himself, “she would have defied him until the world ended and the rapture came.”

“I think Harris was poisoned." Stiles said, “my guess is henbane, but I can’t prove it was her.”

“I don't need you to, I don't intend to be legal about what I’m going to do.” He broke a small roll of bread apart with his hands and gave half to Bronagh who gobbled it greedily, then sucking up the rest when she was done. “We're going to do it right, aren't we, Bronagh girl, aren't we?”

“Tell me what you need." Stiles said, “and I will do my best to make sure you get it.”

“And if your husband objects?" Peter asked.

“He can object." Stiles answered, “I am not a lily-handed princess, I am the laird of Dubhfaolain, with him absent I am the voice of Dubhfaolain and head of the family of Hale and I say tell me what you need, Uncle Peter, that I can make it happen, because that bastard threw my husband to the dogs when he was a baby so they would tear him apart.” Stiles' hands were clenched into fists so tightly they hurt. “He has offered me nothing by kindness, and he is barely more than a dog because that is what they raised him to be. How many years, Peter, was he in the dog's stables?”

“Nine, he was fifteen when he left for the Holy Land,” Peter said. It was emotionally calm, the years had stripped the anger from him. “He was eighteen when Laura died. He had just turned nineteen when he came back to Scotland and he's been out here ever since.”

“How old is he? I dare not ask Parrish or Boyd, it just seems like the sort of thing you should know about your husband.”

Peter's laugh this time was more fond than mocking. “He turned twenty-one this past month.”

Stiles tilted his head, "I thought him older. There are so many stories about him.”

“And most of them are true," Peter smiled, “but you are not just some bride sent to him from Edinburgh, you have to remember that, you are his bride. In so many ways he thinks like a hound, like is one of them just with less fur, and you are his mate, his to breed and to cherish, the one who will lick his wounds and bite him if he gets uppity. That gives you so much more freedom than most of the brides of the nobility if he is the fist of _Dubhfaolain_ you are its voice. I love my nephew dearly, but he is not an easy person to live with, he’s too broken to be anything else.”

"Kill them,” Stiles said firmly, “burn their castles to the ground, if you need money to build an army I will find it for you, however, I can, but you destroy them, Peter, you do whatever you need to to make sure that they don't rise again.”

“Dear boy," Peter said, “You say that like I wasn't going to already.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> four chapters in one day  
> sounds like a crowded house song

Jordan Parrish had entered the service of Theodoric Hale just outside Tripoli on the way to Jerusalem. He had been a knight, the lowest rung on the ladder of knights who served his lord. As such all the foul, stinking, or generally unpleasant jobs went to him, secure in the knowledge he had no guards to do it for him.

When his lord struck him in front of Derek Derek had leapt over the table and held a knife to the man's throat. When the other knights tried to interfere his dogs barged their way into the inn and started barking loud enough to drown out the storm outside.

By the time the sun rose the next morning Jordan had been cast out of his previous lord’s service and had sworn himself to Derek. Derek at the time had been barely fifteen years old and he had made his way from Edinburgh with Tripoli with only his dogs and his horse for company.

Derek had never made him regret his decision.

Boyd came after, and then three other knights, all of them cast offs of other lords, or who wanted more than they could offer, and by the time they returned to Edinburgh, with only two dogs lost in battle out of all that they fought, there was a loyalty there that most lords could only dream of, so when Derek received a raven from Edinburgh asking him to attend his own wedding Parrish knew that he had to stand as proxy.

He had thought that the bride, Saint Yseult’s Miracle, would be a pale, bloodless, city-bred thing. A gift made by a king who had no idea what it was to live in his country outside of the softness of the city. Instead, there was Stiles, who was bright and clever, and a little conniving, and who, the instant Derek had seen him had stolen his heart quite away.

Stiles, who was prepared to talk and argue about anything he could, who took one look at Dubhfaolain and helped make it function again in a way that Derek could not, for he lacked the words.

Derek was not stupid, far from it, sometimes Parrish thought Derek far cleverer than he, but his upbringing such as it was, and it had taken a lot to get even the barest bones of it from Derek, years of service and cups of raw spirit, so when he went to Edinburgh it was with the knowledge that he would spite Argent even if it was all he could do.

So many times over those first few weeks he had wanted to smack the smirk off Kate's face.

Derek did not despise Kate the way many of the household did, but nor did he like her much. In his complicated way Derek understood pack and not pack, and Kate was not pack, but she was not a threat yet, because all she used, to Derek's knowledge was words, and because they were not knives or swords or teeth or claws, he could not understand that they might be as injurious.

If Kate had not slept in the women's quarters it was possible that Parrish would have taken a pillow to her face so it would be said she died peaceably in her sleep.

Kate had wandering hands, hands that Derek had just picked up and placed on the table with no other question, Boyd had pinched her once when her hand slid up his thigh and she had demanded that he be whipped for the presumption and Derek had ignored her.

If she had sidled up to Derek like a cat in heat, obviously hoping to use her body to curry favour she was out of luck as Bronagh, most usually, but sometimes one of the other dogs, just shunted her out of the way, and left Derek looking at her like what did she expect.

Bronagh liked Stiles, and he wasn’t just bribing her with candies like the rest of Derek's household. The last time that had happened was with Paige who had served Queen Sybilla and because of Bronagh's like he had fallen for her. He had let Parrish and Boyd, because it had become their duty long before then, wash him and cut the worst of the grime from his hair, picking out beetles instead of lice that time, and he had tried, in his shy, feral way to court her.

She had been charmed, and charming, she had played the dulcimer for the queen, and then, like so many in Jerusalem she fell sick. She had died the way she lived, quietly with no ceremony. Derek had been heartbroken. Had he the language perhaps he might have sworn never to love again, and Matthew, one of the other knights, had taken him to a whore house where they had not cared that his manners were rough or that he spoke French poorly but English worse.

Then they had returned to the front and Derek returned to violence and anger and blood.

When they returned to Scotland there were no whores visited along the way, no maidens who were smiled at as they passed. There was the journey and there were the Hounds.

He had taken Dubhfaolain as a military duty, patrolling it like a dog would its own territory, driving off raiders and returning goods to the abbeys plundered as often as he could, sending what was left to the king after Isaac squared away his cut. There were always trinkets for Kate, shiny pretty things that kept her quiet whilst they were there.

That was a sign of how intelligent Derek was, not wanting to deal with her he bought her silence.

Jordan hated patrolling in November. It was snowing again, so not only was it cold, the sort of cold where the air itself felt brittle with frost, it was wet and the snowflakes were finding every nook and cranny in his armour, as if he did not wear a cape and cloak, and a fur about his shoulders besides.

His horse, long used to travelling with the Hounds, didn't seem to care for it either.

This was going to be a long hunt, the raiders had moved inland, which was very unusual, but this late in the years the seas were unruly, and it was possible they were lying low in one of the coves until the spring, raiding the nearby farms for sustenance rather than wealth.

These were the worst kind of hunts, and Parrish could not say why it was that was here when Derek had been adamant before he left for Edinburgh that Parrish was to look after his bride, and if he had been left with Boyd he would be tucked up on a stool or bench before the fire drinking ale and contemplating his bed, not wondering if the snow was going to settle, and if so deep enough to slow down the horses.

He did not know why it was that Derek had suddenly not wanted him to remain to guard what was now his greatest treasure.

It would be weeks, Parrish knew with a heavy heart, before they could return to Dubhfaolain. That meant weeks of cold, snow, finding the best place to put a fire so the smoke didn't give them away, bedding down with the dogs for warmth, because as fierce as they were in battle their fur was thick and waterproof, and Parrish was not too proud not to lie down next to Derek in the thick of them the way some of the knights were.

If the dogs hadn't killed him for it yet they were not going to, and his pride didn't account for a sore arse, toes so cold they felt like a stone in his boots, and what looked like a season of perpetual snow.


	22. Chapter 22

Stiles was sat in his new solar finally getting the opportunity to go over the books for the mansion. He had sheets of birch bark that he could make notes on as he worked on with a sharpened piece of charcoal wrapped in more birchbark sealed with a little wax to stop it staining his hands black.

He had scribbled everything down into columns, which tenants offered which stock, how much they were required to give as rent, almost everything was on a barter system. So there was wheat, rye, some winter vegetables, although most of those that the manor used were grown in the manor's vegetable gardens, but there were bushels of cabbages and carrots, so that meant he had the amount that people were amount to give, and if they had offered extra of something else in exchange where crops had failed. So that was one sheet, with what the bailiffs recorded receiving, Cook's accounts of what had been used and Harris’ account of what had been sold.

He expected some discrepancy but mostly it seemed to add up nicely. Where possible Harris had cut costs on what he had given Kate by taking it from the manor’s stores, jewelry that had been given to the house was reset to look new, he had supplied scraps of leather intended for girdles to the girdler for her, so in most cases she thought she was taking more from the house than she was.

It was broadcloth, fine wool and silk blends and linens where her depredations had seen most losses. She had gone through the equivalent of nine bales of wool, three wool and silk weave bales, and as much as both together.

With the gains they were making by having the weavers and spinsters in the village, and trading them the raw wool from the crofters, as well as what they had spun themselves at a different price after all the labour had to be counted, this meant they didn’t have to pay porters, they would then trade the broadcloth, wool and linen back, but the only tailor was at the small port that the manor also looked over, along with such trades as fishing, smoking, butchery, tanning, although the tanner lived alone surrounded by oaks, as leather tanning was an unpleasant stinking business and the two mills.

They kept as much as they could within the manor's lands simply to cut costs but it now meant it was Stiles’ job to watch over all of that, to manage the food stores, the laborers pay, as they were not part of the peasant stock, so they needed to be housed, and fed, which saved money in wages, which was good because Kate had been liberal in taking from the cash money too.

The bread had been sour when Stiles first arrived because it was what could not be sold. There was a lot of barley in their food because it was the one that was hardest to sell in Scotland simply because everyone grew it, and it soaked up water more than wheat flour making it bad for long term sea journeys, over oats, which had been the second grain to go as Harris tried to find as much money as he could to keep Kate’s interest.

Everything she had had after Boyd and the other knight, whose name Stiles hadn't caught, had raised her things, and they had been thorough, went into the stores and Stiles had to account for that too.

He knew the more thorough his job was now the easier it would be when he maintained his books but that didn't make it easy now.

Whilst he was trying to gather the numbers he had taken over the tedious job of turning and wiping down the cheeses daily, which he had found himself enjoying, perhaps an hour in the cheese store, taking down the wheels of cheese, none of which were too large not to be able to lifted down by a single person - the ones in Edinburgh had needed three people to turn them, and the castle cheese stores had smelled foul and kind of moldy, where the manor's one smelled fresh, because of the new straw on the floor and the freshly white-washed walls. It would take over the weird cheese smells later, but, for now, it still smelled fresh and only mildly cheesy, and that was a pleasant smell.

So his eyes felt itchy and his head hurt when Heather came in with a tray of wine, oat cakes and hard cheese he took it gratefully. He had not thought that he was hungry but as soon as the food was in front of him he found he was starving. “Heather," he asked, softly, “does your mother have any of the pickled onions and anything else we can eat, I have a tremendous appetite.”

"My lord,” Heather said, wringing her hands in front of her, "I hesitate to ask but," she cast her eyes down, “my lord, I know it is very early to ask, but might you be with child?”

“It has been barely two weeks since I was first visited by my husband," Stiles said, but, in his head, he was doing the calculations. "I am not due my courses," he said, "I had them just before I left Edinburgh, that was,” he counted the days off on his fingers. “I’m late," he said, “oh god, I’m late.”

“You also have been under a lot of pressure, what with Mistress Kate and Harris’ death," she offered, “sometimes we are not as regular as we could be when we are overwhelmed. But you said you were finding it hard to wake in the mornings and your appetite is massive right now, it might be nothing, but well people gossip, and your sheets haven’t been stained.”

“I shall certainly keep it in mind, I am probably just late." He conceded. “However, who is the midwife in town so I might ask if there is anything I should be aware of, the gossips will gossip anyway," he continued, “but if they’re talking about that they’re not talking about Kate. Can you please ask her to come to see me, and ask Peter to visit with me, thank you.”

Stiles was still chewing on the idea that he might be pregnant, although Heather was right it might simply be the pressures of running the estate and dealing with Kate that his menses might be late. He had not been having them that long and, unlike many of the women at the queen's court, he was not that regular because he was young and his body was still finding its way, the midwife had said.

Yes, he decided, gnawing on one of the bread crusts. He was just late because of the pressures, he could worry about it if he missed a second menses.

He had finished his cup of wine when Heather came back with more food, a bowl of reheated pottage poured over a thick wedge of yesterday's bread. He was scraping the bowl with his spoon when Peter knocked and entered.

“So," Peter said with a raised eyebrow, “you and Derek have been busy.”

Stiles liked Peter’s mocking, it was much more exploratory than mean. “If you are asking if I did my duty," Stiles said, “then I can answer yes, many time and in many positions.”

“Then the midwife shall be busy." He had a mocking smile under the scars, Peter's humour could be acerbic and even hint towards cruel but that was more what Stiles was used to. He had grown up in the court of the Queen of Scotland, and her ladies were vicious, conversations with Peter were like returning to Edinburgh. “But you wanted me?”

“Yes," he turned the books to show Peter, “right now I am overwhelmed with the accounts and I know this is not something I should necessarily ask you, but I know that you need a home for the winter at least, Peter, could you be my chamberlain, at least until spring?”

Peter sat down on the grain arc and crossed his legs with his back against the wall. "I shall consider it.” He said, “if only now you have tantalised me with knowledge," he flicked his eyes to Stiles' belly over the desk, "I'd thought with you being so young yourself that you might have taken precautions. You do know that there are precautions.”

“Of course, there are tinctures I take, but I did not think that," he blushed clear to the roots of his hair. "I have attention issues," he admitted, “I have tinctures for that, and tinctures to even my menses, they were very heavy, all of which I have discussed with the apothecary, I do not know why I am telling this to you.”

Peter’s smile was like that of a wolf. “Because, dear boy, we’re family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> question time
> 
> do you want stiles to be pregnant already? it won't alter the story in any great way and we have time to make the decision - so I've added the tag
> 
> is he pregnant or just late due to stress?


	23. Chapter 23

It was the second day of December when Derek returned, early in the morning. They had begun the process of decorating the manor for the yule festival gathering holly which was in piles in the hall waiting for people to have the time after their duties to wind them into wreaths and banners to hang from the mantles and doorways.

Despite the decoration only in it's beginning stages the branches of spruce and pine made the room smell sweet and clear, as well as discouraged any insects from wintering in the room which was, due to the fire that was almost always lit on the hearth, warm.

Keziah had rushed upstairs as soon as the riders were seen on the horizon to wake Stiles so when Liam came in, without knocking, Stiles was standing naked in front of the fire as Keziah tugged his shirt over his head to change it. He also had let down his hair, so Liam technically saw nothing, perhaps a flash of skin under the curtain of hair, before he blushed bright red and almost fell out of the door.

"I’m so sorry," he said and ran back down the stairs.

Once he was dressed, and his hair bound up he went downstairs, accompanied by Keziah, going into the hall where the knights were waiting. Stiles recognised Parrish, and Boyd had joined them, but he had not spent enough time with the men to know them, there were faces that were familiar, and Brett, Derek's own squire, looked as harried as ever, although he was trying to grow his own facial hair now.

Derek was eating, cold pease pudding that had been quickly fried with thickly sliced bacon, most of his men had something similar, but with more pease than bacon. When he saw Stiles Derek stood up and wiped his fingers on a cloth that someone, probably either Brett or Parrish had stuffed into the opening on his jerkin expecting this.

“Beloved," He said and grinned at Stiles like he had seen the Christ child himself. Stiles found he liked Derek’s grin, even if he was overgrown and muddy, when he grinned like that his eyes crinkled and he showed all of his teeth, showing them to be white and even, although his front teeth were a little longer than the others like those of a rabbit, though certainly not that long. At some point, and almost certainly to treat the large scab on the side of his head, someone had shaved the sides of his head so it looked like the hair on top was a pelt laid upon his bald head, and Brett had managed to keep his beard trimmed. He looked like a person, where the last time he came back he had looked not entirely unlike a wild man.

Even Peter, who had either been or been pretending to be, a beggar moving from district to district collecting alms, had looked cleaner than Derek when he had first returned to _Dubhfaolain_.

It was clear that he had learned a new word, perhaps he had learned it from Parrish, and Stiles found he liked how the word made him feel, and when Derek opened his arms to him he went across to him. "I am sorry I made you wait," Stiles said, lowering his eyes because sometimes he felt a little overwhelmed when Derek looked at him like Derek was capable of consuming him whole and Stiles did not know how to react to that. "I was dressing.”

He had seen many married couples in court and none of them looked at each other like that. There were alphas at court who would look at people like they were working how they would act with them in bed, and Derek did not look at Stiles like that. He knew what they were doing, and how to manipulate it. He knew how to swing his hips so the alpha would offer him things, or tilt his head so his veil fell away from his throat, but he didn't have to do those things with Derek, he just had to be, and that was as terrifying as much as it was wonderful.

Derek looked at him like he was something precious and infinite to amazing and that was often more than he could bear. “Poor Liam would have gotten an eyeful if not for my hair,” Stiles said, “Parrish, you must teach the boy to knock.”

It was made to be lightly mocking, to further the boy’s embarrassment but instead, Derek lunged towards him, and Parrish only caught him by luck, as he turned and wrapped his arms around the waist to grab Derek as Liam scuttled backwards off the bench.

“I beg your pardon," Stiles barked out, “Not here.” He took Derek by the hand and guided him to the solar whilst Derek growled and Parrish blocked the way to Liam.

“Beloved," Derek growled and pushed Stiles up against the wall.

“No," Stiles turned them so he was not caged in, and started to poke at his husband’s chest, "I am not scared of you.”

Derek growled at him.

“I am a little scared." He admitted, “but I don't think you're going to hurt me, and you do not get to attack people just because they made a mistake. I thought you and your men would tease him, I did not think that you would try to rip out his throat with your teeth.” Derek backed off a little at the finger poking him hard on the shoulder. Stiles knew from past experience, and years of playing the harp, his fingers were strong and kind of pointy. He was excellent at poking and he was poking for all he was worth. “You are going to go back in there and you are going to apologise.”

Derek grinned, and then wrapped his arms around Stiles’ hips and lifted him, spinning him around with what looked like delight, “Strong dam strong pups.” He said before nuzzling his face into Stiles' throat, “but want," he cupped his hand around Stiles’ head, “want.”

“I do not understand you.” Stiles said, “you were furious a moment ago, and now you're feeling amorous.”

“Want," Derek repeated, touching Stiles' hair.

"Oh," he said with a moment of realisation. “You want to see my hair down.” He leant in against Derek for a moment, appreciating his strength. Stiles not one of those small omegas, the ones who whiled away their lives in towers in stories and were almost small enough to fit into the hand of the knight determined to prove his worth. Stiles had shoulders as broad as Derek's own, and he was heavy footed.

He was not like fair Rymenhild, he was big and bulky and his hair did not behave like it should, but Derek looked at him like he was one of those princesses in the stories and it confused him terribly.

“Let me down, you oaf," he said, “if I am holding myself up around your neck, I cannot undo my hair. Although you’ll have to get Keziah in here after, I cannot put it back on my own.”

Derek growled.

"I can't wear it down all day,” Stiles said as Derek sat him down on his desk and started tugging at his veil. “stop it,” he said batting away Derek's hands, “you're tugging on the pins, stop it, it hurts."

Derek pulled away from his hands that fast it was like he had been burned. Stiles was a little dazzled by how much care Derek had for him and undid the pins holding in his veil. Then the pins holding his braids, then the laces that held his braids in place. It was lucky that this time Keziah had not actually stitched the laces into his scalp.

The braids fell to his waist down his front, and he started to loosen them with his fingers, finally shaking it out when it was done, it hung clear to his knees, crinkled from always being braided, and heavier than Stiles tended to give it credit for when it was up.

“Beloved," there was a low, awed tone in Derek’s voice and his fingers reached out but he didn't touch.

"If you apologise to Liam," Stiles said, “you can touch it.”

Derek was so awed, he nearly fell over his own feet going for the door, opening it, shouting for Liam. When Liam stumbled up the stairs, terrified clearly, Derek barked out “sorry," and slammed the door behind him.

Stiles couldn't help but laugh. It was so ridiculous and flattering that he was still laughing when Derek inserted himself between Stiles’ legs where he was still sat on the desk, pushed up his skirts so they were out of the way and his hose and shoes were on display before he reached out and touched Stiles' hair, burying his nose in it, and stroking it like he was a dog.

“You darling, crazy man," Stiles said into Derek's hair, and Derek had just buried his face into the loose hair.

“Beloved,” Derek agreed.


	24. Chapter 24

Stiles left the room quite secure that everyone knew what he was about, he was still as wobbly as a new calf and was unsure that his legs would do to support him.

Derek had left before, loose-hipped and amused, to fetch Keziah to help Stiles with his hair and she had immediately known what it was about.

Stiles had hair like most of the omega, long and well kept, sometimes Keziah brushed it through with perfumed oils, but he had never really worn it down. It was too long, too cumbersome and it got everywhere. Even when he kept it neatly tied back because after all a female beta or an omega's hair was sin made manifest, it still got everywhere, and he was not unused to pulling very long hairs from his asscrack. Or the pads of his hose. Or a million other places he had no idea how it had gotten there.

Derek would be pulling it out of his mouth for days.

He didn't hate his hair, it was a thing but he got frustrated with it, it needed so much care and attention and two people to get it out of the way. Then it got tangled, and things got caught in it. He’d once had a nightmare that he had gone to sleep with his hair down and woken up to find a rat in it, tangled up and strangled by his hair. He believed his hair capable of it, so he kept it neatly restrained.

But Derek had seemed enamored of his hair, and he had stood there, dragging his nose through it and taking deep, drugging breaths, enjoying it and the crackling of the fire in the grate and the feel of Stiles in his hands, before he dropped down in front of him, dragging his hands up over the wool of his hose, Stiles was wearing thick felt hose that were cross-gartered because of the cold, they were not the sort of dainty stockings an omega wore at court.

Derek did not seem to care and his fingertips were shockingly cold on Stiles’ thighs, as he pushed them apart with a pleased growl. “What are you about?” Stiles asked and with one hand on his stomach to hold him down, Derek showed him.

He used his mouth to lavish kisses and licks and sucking bites on Stiles’ cock and into the crack of his ass, running his tongue everywhere he could reach in the humid shelter of Stiles’ skirts’ which where mostly pulled up out of the way, and the air was cold but Derek was hot, and the sensation of it was more than Stiles could bear. His entire being seemed focussed on the chill of his thighs, and the heat of Derek's mouth as orgasm pooled low in his stomach.

When he had come in Derek's mouth, Derek pulled himself up, “I?" he asked and gestured, “beloved? Please?” It was an urgent entreaty but it was an entreaty.

And Stiles felt exposed and empty, worked open by Derek's mouth, “please." Stiles said and wiped his slick from Derek's beard before he kissed him.

Derek undid the points of his trousers and pushed inside Stiles with a groan, and when they knotted, he pulled Stiles up from the desk, and wrapped his legs around Derek's’ waist, and sat back on the grain arc with his back against the one tapestry until they caught their breath, and Derek made nipping bites against Stiles’ chin, muttering beloved.

When they finally disengaged, when Stiles’ legs were even more wobbly than they were now, Derek had used the napkin tucked into his jerkin to wipe him clean, and found a jug of decanted red wine and took long swallows from it, before he offered it to Stiles.

“You always ask," Stiles said, drinking from the jug.

“Yes means yes once, no always means no." He sounded like he was proud that he could say it. “You have to ask." And Stiles wanted to ask who had taught him that, and if there was a way he could teach most of the men in court that lesson. Brides never got the opportunity to say no. “You choose." He added, the words sounding odd and uncomfortable in his mouth. In the two weeks and several days that he had been away he had clearly been practising his words after years of not having to use them. “You say no, I listen."

And Stiles smile had been tremulous. “Strong dam." he repeated, “others want dam if strong, you strong. You beloved. You mine.”

“You are beloved," Stiles correctly softly, punctuating each word with a kiss, “you are mine.” He wasn't sure if he was truly saying it or just correcting so that Derek would be more comfortable in his talking. He was not sure how he felt. It was easier to be pleasant about Derek when he was not present.

“Beloved," Derek answered, sucking out Stiles lip with a kiss, before he patted Stiles on the head, “beautiful.” He added.

When he left it was a smile, and much looser than when he had entered the room.

Keziah had been amused, before clucking over his hair, and despairing that it would probably need to be washed again, before braiding it back up and this time stitching it into place with the laces. She had made him wash his face and brought warm water for him to wash up with. “If you are not with child yet, you will be soon with the way you are carrying on." She said.

Stiles pushed her concerns away. He had very much enjoyed what he and Derek had been about, and when he went into the main hall he had taken the seat next to his husband, let Derek spoon food from his own plate onto the trencher in front of Stiles and just rolled his eyes fondly.

He felt well fucked and indulgent, picking at the fried bacon before him and letting Derek suck the grease from his fingers with a laugh.

Truly for the first time since he had come to Dubhfaolain, he felt at home and comfortable.

“My lord," one of the stablers said, coming in, “you must come," he bowed his head, “your bitch, my lord, in the stables.”

Derek patted Stiles on the veil again as he got up, but Stiles was right behind him. Bronagh had left him when he had first gotten up and stumbled out and Stiles had assumed it was simply to relieve herself, because of the furore with Derek he had not realised she had not come back in.

Stiles liked Bronagh, she didn't talk much and she didn't take up too much of the bed, and her flatulence was better than Keziah's, so he accompanied Derek through the snow to the stables.

The stables were warm, the horse flesh and house dogs, those used to help the cats keep down the mice and rats, lived in the stable, and above it was stored fresh hay and old straw, which was used to line the stables and making the mucking out easier. “Boyd," Stiles called, “what’s wrong with Bronagh?”

“Nothing's wrong with Bronagh," he answered, “she’s having her pups, I knew Derek was excited about it.”

Stiles blinked several times in quick succession. “Bronagh was pregnant.”

Derek was kneeling in the straw in front of the dog who had made herself a nest of straw tucked up in a corner and had kept the rest of her pack away. He ran his face along hers like he was scenting her. “Good girl," he said and she used her nose to nudge him to a small damp lump in front of her and Derek beamed, “good girl," he repeated, “good, good girl.”

Using a piece of burlap he picked up the puppy and dried it off, Bronagh had used her tongue to remove what she could, and fluffed up the put the pup back under Bronagh's nose who licked it.

 

Derek spent the rest of the day and most of the night with Bronagh who was delivered, to the stablemaster's delight, nine pups, all strong and brave.

As he lay in his bed waiting for Derek to join him Stiles made a realisation. He had thought that Derek had left Bronagh to watch over and protect him. Derek had left Bronagh so Stiles could watch over and protect her and her pups.

He did, wish, however, that someone had told him she was with child, there would have been many more soup bones in her life.


	25. Chapter 25

It took Derek two days to notice Kate’s absence, with the folderol of the new pups, and finding winter homes for all of the men he had brought with him, trips to the seaside town for more fish because their stores would not otherwise cope Stiles was kept so busy that he barely saw his husband, just falling into bed with him at night, knowing Derek himself was as busy, smelling sweetly of straw which Stiles often found himself pulling out of his beard.

So it was supper two days after his arrival that Derek looked around the table and went “Kate?”

Stiles put down his knife and wiped his hands on the napkin on his lap. “She is currently in the monastery just south of here, she is taking time in meditation.”

Derek turned to him, a piece of mutton half way to his mouth and just suspended there, “why?” he asked.

“We are eating, my lord," Stiles said stiffly, “after our supper, we can retreat into the solar and discuss this in private.”

"No," Derek said and bit into the mutton at the end of his knife with a snap of his teeth.

“Yes," Stiles answered in a forced calm voice, “because it is impolitic for us to discuss this where everyone can see us. We can discuss this in private and you can make the decision when you have all of the information.” Then he lowered his voice and leant in, “but if we argue here then all of your men will see that your mari questions your authority and they will. So we will discuss it in the solar.”

Stiles remembered a woman, a Lady, in fact, being pulled over her husband's knee for questioning him in public and there and then, in the main hall of the king’s castle, given a solid spanking whilst men snickered and drank around them. He had, as a small child, sat beside the queen, asked why and was told that alphas were fragile in their egos and when they were threatened they often reacted with violence. It was an omega’s place to know how to mollify that ego to get their own way.

This was Stiles trying to mollify his husband’s ego. Derek, however, was not so easily quietened.

“Now." He said.

"No," Stiles replied, “when we have finished eating.” He turned back to his plate.

Derek swept the plates away with his hand so that they fell from the high table and clattered to the floor. Wynne, the dog with the white blaze on his chest, made quick work of the food that fell. “Now.”

Stiles sighed and stood up, turning to wash his hands in the bowl of water and dried rose petals that was there for the purpose, drying his hands on the napkin, “Isaac," he said addressing the steward, “please send Erica in with some wine for us, thank you." He turned, “Now will you accompany me to the solar, husband, that we might talk.”

Derek was angry, Stiles knew that from the way he walked, with fists clenched and shoulders pulled in about his ears, his face was twisted and his mouth tight. He was not good at not expressing his emotions, perhaps his time in the stables with the dogs as a child had taught him that transparency, or simply he had never learned the duplicity the courts thrived on.

“Take a seat," Stiles said, gesturing to the chair, it was not quite a throne, but it was not far from it, with a thick wool pillow for his ass. Stiles spent so long in it that he wanted it to be comfortable, and there was a blanket draped across the back.

“Where is Kate?” Derek asked.

"I told you, she's in the monastery. She," he was interrupted when Erica came in, she kept her head bowed, her time as Kate's servant had made her terrified, although Stiles swore Kate would never hurt her again.

“Erica," Stiles said calmly, “would you show his lordship your hands?”

Erica had large brown eyes that she mostly kept covered by her frizzy blonde hair, that couldn't be restrained neatly no matter how hard she tried. Stiles had offered her his coifs, which he hated, he had too much hair to neatly restrain so easily, but she had refused. She put the tray of wine down and then tugged off the woollen gauntlets that she was wearing to show her hands.

They were scarred, the knuckles were swollen and her fingers twisted, she was still capable with them, because being anything less had seen her beaten. In the center of each palm was a perfectly circular burn where a disk of hot metal was pressed against the skin. “Kate did this," Stiles said. “Her back was flogged so viciously it looks like a pile of faggots with straight scars, and these," he showed Derek the round scars, “she has these all over her body because it amused Kate to heat a coin and press it against her. And she pinched. One of the girls near lost an eye because Kate’s porridge was too cold but it scalded her face. I shall not have her in this household.”

“No,” Derek said. “Sister, responsibility.”

Erica took the opportunity to flee.

“It is not your responsibility to allow her to abuse the members of this household, it is your responsibility to protect them.”

“Lies," Derek repeated. “Jealous.” He became almost monosyllabic in his rage.

"I don't have to lie." Stiles said, raising his voice just as Derek was, “I have four years of accounts of Harris giving her money from the stores so he would sleep with her. I have the accounts of all the female servants that Kate pinched them, or beat them, or touched them inappropriately just to hurt them. I have the coin she used to torture them. I have the graves of six girls who served as her maid. I do not care what it is that you do with her but I will not have her back in this house.

“I sent her to the monastery for reflection because the alternative was sending for the bishop for the burning of a witch." Erica flinched, "I offered her a mercy because I knew you thought I would be jealous, but if I were jealous, if I, for a moment, believed her lies then I would have burned her in the square and considered it a job well done.”

He turned and lifted the books, “look!" he said pointing at the figures, “this is the reason your bread tasted like someone had pissed in it and was more weevil than grain because she wanted a new girdle set with quartz, here is the bill. How about how there was not enough oats for the sailors but she had a new diadem set with chips of ruby, here," he stabbed at the book with his finger.

He walked over to the other book, “here is the injuries that Deaton charged us for, here is Erica here, here and here, all with her skin torn by pincers, or burned, or here cut with a knife, just because she could," he opened the grain ark and lifted out the jewelry throwing it at Derek, “this is the food she took from your peasant's mouths, from your laborers, this is the reason when I came here that the privy was held up by the door and a stiff wind would have revealed everything to everyone.” He threw another girdle, “here is why there was almost no hay in the store,” and another one, “this is why Bronagh has been mostly living on scraps because there was nothing to spare for the dogs unless she wanted grain fat rats. If you had not brought in a hunt there would be nothing to eat, because she spent it. She fucked Harris for access to the stores, and when it looked like I might get access to the books he died, he died so quickly that people are saying it was witchcraft. Deaton thinks it was poison, so I will not have her back in this house.”

Derek tried to loom over him, it was not as easy as he would have liked as he and Stiles were a height and when he backed Stiles up to the door Stiles grinned. “You do not scare me." He repeated, “the worst you can do to me is beat me, and you will not." He said and took Derek's hand and held it to his stomach, the same part of him that Derek liked to cup when they slept. “Because I might be with child.”

Derek did not seem to understand. “She is a poison in this house," Stiles repeated, “And what I have achieved her is despite her, because the ruin you were used to was her, she did not serve as Lady when she was, and when she wasn't she did her best to bleed the place dry.”

"Lies," Derek repeated.

Stiles narrowed his eyes, “it's clear in the journals and ledgers." He said, “I have enough proof that I could take her before the king and have her hung as an adulteress, if not strung in a cage like a thief, why can't you see that?” He narrowed his eyes, “Derek, can you read?” Derek growled in answer. “You can’t, you can't read." Stiles tightened his hand around Derek's' waist, still on his belly, “I can teach you.” He said, “there’s no shame in being unable to read, or being misled by a pretty face, Derek, people do it all the time.” He cupped Derek's face with his free hand.

"If you do not believe me about Kate,” Stiles said, “ask your knights, ask who she touched against their will, which of them warned her to leave them alone, and which felt obliged to go to her bed because I know it's true of some of the labourers. Even ask your hounds why they shied away from her, why Bronagh growled at her when she grew too close to me. Leave her in the monastery, Derek, it’s for the best.”

"No," Derek said, “responsibility, Laura’s mari." he was trying to think of the words but the more flustered he got the more the words eluded him.

“Laura did not choose her." Stiles said, “you know Kate's father forced it, it was because of that that the king wed you to me, because he wanted you to marry his Allison, so that Argent could have me.” Derek growled. “The king didn't like it more than you do.” Derek's growl was more subvocal now, as if questioning everything. “I would not be surprised if Kate received word from her father to destroy this place, to kill us both. I would not put it past her.”

“Laura’s mari," Derek repeated, “responsibility.”

“Derek,” Stiles said softly, “you are not responsible for what she did, she made the decisions herself.”

"No," Derek said, pursing his lips, “responsibility.”

“You are angry,” Stiles said, “do you need time to work out your words? To decide what you want to say."

"No," he snapped, he did not care for what he considered Stiles treating him like a child. “Think," he said with a huffing sigh. Then he raised his eyes, “baby?” he asked.

“Maybe," Stiles said, “I’ve been overwrought, that might be it. Sometimes they look the same.”

Derek nodded, “maybe baby?” he asked.

“Maybe." Stiles agreed. “As soon as it's not maybe you’ll be the first to know.”

“Strong pups,” Derek said, “Bronagh pups, Beloved pups.” He still looked consternated which was a massive improvement from his rage. “Kate," he added and that was more expressive perhaps than he intended. “Responsibility, mine," he said, “maybe responsibility not mine.”

"I don't understand," Stiles said although he was usually good with keeping up the way Derek expressed himself.

Derek took the wine cup and said “mine," he gave the cup to Stiles, “not mine.”

"Oh," Stiles said understanding at last, “if you marry Kate to someone else then she won't be your responsibility anymore and you won’t be hurting Laura’s memory if something happens.”

Derek nodded, then patted Stiles on the chest “good boy," he said. He tended to do that when he wanted to express praise. “Good Beloved.”


	26. Chapter 26

Angry at Derek but also wanting to give him time to think over the situation with Kate, and see that Stiles was right and keeping her in a convent was the best for everyone involved, so he asked Parrish and Boyd, Derek had bristled at including Parrish but eased at the inclusion of Boyd, to help him find and cut down the yule log.

The yule log was a tree that was cut down at the beginning of the advent month and allowed to dry until the first night of twelfth night when it was dragged into the house, sprinkled with old salt and wine and then burned, as it was inched, night by night, into the fireplace.

He had dressed in his husband’s clothes, and a great coat under his cloak and cape, and a pair of heavy boots that had, at some point, belonged to a laborer who had either left, leaving the boots behind, possibly to the village below to be a fisherman, because the hobs would cause him to skid across a wet floor, or died. They were a fair fit so Stiles didn't complain and, despite the snow, they kept his feet warm and dry.

He spent the most of the day trying to find the perfect tree, a cherry ideally, one past fruit and large enough that burning almost solidly it would take twelve days to burn, and when they returned, dragging it behind them from one of the few horses the manor had that were not kept for Derek and his knights, although all three of them had ridden into the woods looking for the tree.

It was a pleasant excuse to go outside of the manor for a ride, Stiles had always loved to ride but unless he was hunting with the queen he had not been allowed to, but when he suggested it to his husband it was not the riding that raised an eyebrow but that he wanted to go with Parrish. Since they left that second time Derek had been strange about Parrish, almost always making sure that Derek stood between he and Stiles.

Mostly Derek and Stiles bickered, as much as Derek was capable which involved him trying to loom over Stiles and baring his teeth and Stiles poking him back and being determined not to be cowed, even if his legs turned to water as soon as Derek was out of sight, and it was clear Derek did not mind if Stiles dressed appropriately, in fact, he seemed to like it best if Stiles was wearing his clothes. Whether that was because of easy access, because sex was not something that they found easy even when they were not talking, as much as such a term applied to Derek. They would fall into bed and the bickering stayed outside the bed curtains.

Derek spent most of his time with Bronagh and her pups, making sure they were spoiled better than most of the staff. If it was going spare by the kitchens he appropriated it, and Cook found it very funny.

In the past month since Stiles had taken over the care of the manor there had been a lot of changes, not only to the buildings themselves, but the livestock were getting more feed because Stiles had arranged for Isaac to buy it, at a premium this late in the season, but it meant the milk cows, both of them, produced more milk and it was richer with cream. It meant that the hens, geese and ducks produced more eggs so there was more to cook with, so a leftover egg boiled with porridge could certainly go to a new mother.

The same happened with Elspeth who looked like she might, at any moment, pop her belly was so swollen, and she had taken to performing as many of her chores sat the kitchen worksurface as much as possible. No one really complained about that for fear she might stand up and go into labour. She had said that she wanted Stiles to be there helping Deaton with the delivery. Stiles didn’t know what help he'd be, and he was not opposed to the idea that she go into labour when he was out fetching the yule log.

He was also sure it wasn't going to happen.

With his luck, he would either be tucked up in bed with his husband asleep or more likely enjoying each other in the only way they truly communicated well.

He had started to try to teach Derek to read, but Derek would get angry when he tried to grab the charcoal wand and inevitably snapped it or at one point crushed it to dust which he got all over his hands and it didn't want to come off his skin, and when he got angry he would sweep the birch sheets off the desk, and then try to distract Stiles so he wouldn't see that he was frustrated, and then when he had calmed down, after a cup or two of wine, Stiles would pretend that he hadn't seen what was basically a temper tantrum and sit on the bench next to him in the solar, because he didn't want everyone to see Derek struggling, although not being able to read was hardly unusual, of the knights only Parrish could, and under the lamp light read to him from the copy of King Horn that he had that pretended to be a psalter.

Derek found it so difficult to talk that teaching him to read might be the labour of a lifetime. Stiles didn’t mind. He had a lifetime.

When they dragged the log, complete with branches that needed to be hacked away that would be repurposed long before the log went into the fire, into the square Derek was stepping out of the stables and wiping his hands. He had, somewhere, learned to wash his hands after dealing with the horses, Stiles wished he could ask him where, and when he saw Stiles, he smiled at him and all the little niggles seemed to slide away, like how stiff his fingers felt and that he wanted to stamp the cold from his feet, or his thighs would burn with the cold when he visited the privy without the blanket of his skirts to keep the chill from settling.

They’d be back to bickering within the hour, but in that moment Stiles felt valued and precious, and not covered in snow melt and stuck over with fir needles and all over grimy. He hoped they would have hot water left from scrubbing the tables, as cook was hoping to take some of the bacon from the brine vats and that usually meant she would boil large cauldrons of water and if some was left over he could have a bath before it got dark and then it would be too late and his hair would still be sopping when he went to bed.

Derek was also getting crafty about trying to unbraid it when he thought that Stiles was not paying attention. However, a lot of pins held it up and it was very difficult to distract someone when pulling pins from their hair. Derek was enamoured of Stiles' hair without understanding how awful it was to have knee length fine hair.

Despite it all when Derek smiled at him Stiles felt like his joints had turned to water.


	27. Chapter 27

Rafael McCall was one of Derek's tenants as opposed to his fief lords, so he kept the other manor on the lands, that flanked the other side of the seaside village. He was often at court but left his wife, Mistress Melissa, in charge of the estate on his behalf and it was generally agreed that she had done an exceptional job. Only one of her children had lived to manhood, her eldest son had accompanied Derek to the Holy Land and lay in the sands of Jerusalem. Her middle two children, a son and daughter, alphas both, had fallen to sickness.

She was left with one son, a broad-shouldered alpha with a crooked smile and his father’s black eyes. He was also, according to Boyd - because Boyd had the best gossip -, mulish, quick to temper, slow to forgive, and although not stupid, easily distracted. He had been passed over for a squiredom because of it, although he was not yet quite old enough to be a knight, he would not be, and Raf had said he was not sure that Scott would be inheriting unless he got his head out from under the serving girl’s skirts and into his duties.

He was spoiled and entitled and genuinely seemed to believe himself a good knight who had been overlooked by his lord.

It fell to Stiles to entertain him and his mother, in the solar no less when Stiles felt protective of who it was he allowed into it, when Derek, who used Parrish as his mouthpiece, discussed who it was who would be offered Mistress Kate as a wife.

Derek was hoping that the miller, who had recently lost his wife, but whose fiefdom was in the lands that McCall held for him would accept her in return for a lessening of his duties, but Raf was protesting that they would offer her, as the daughter of a powerful lord, to his son, in the hope that giving him a beautiful bride, who although almost old enough to be his mother, was aware of the feminine arts would be enough to keep him from the skirts of the serving girls.

Stiles did mention, over a light nuncheon, that Kate was clever, manipulative and cruel, and Raf smiled at him and asked Derek if Stiles was jealous and that was why they were so eager to get her from their household. After all, he had been newly married himself once.

When it was suggested to Scott that he might marry Mistress Kate he commented that he had been to court and met Vidama Allison Argent and if she was nearly as lovely as her niece then he would be best pleased.

Stiles felt he had done all that he could short of warning them she might be a witch, and that he had not done simply because he knew they would not listen.

So instead he worked with the staff to plan a wedding, even if he hated Kate, which he did, he would not have the McCalls carry tales of his parsimony to Edinburgh when they travelled there, as they planned to, for the winter. In fact, Raf McCall was somewhat pleased by this as it meant his son would be alone with his new bride for several weeks to get used to their new marriage.

When Mistress Melissa corrected him that she would still be present Raf seemed a little surprised as if he had taken it for granted that his wife would accompany him, but then decided it was for the best as it shortened a ten-day journey to four. Scott would be married as soon as possible, he and Derek decided, and then Derek would go to visit the Bishop, who had plans for him that no one had explained to Stiles but apparently involved three days away and a lot of wine and he would be back in time for twelfth night.

Stiles had opinions about that but he would keep them to himself until he and Derek were alone.

Mistress Melissa invited them to her manor, reminding Stiles that it was hers and that she was a fine hostess and a fine midwife, with a knowledge of herbery that rivalled that of Dr Deaton if Stiles wished to learn.

Stiles nodded and gestured that he might take her up on her promise at some point later, after all, he would not want to intrude upon the new couple.

When Stiles was going to the kitchen, carrying the tray of wine, Peter sidled up behind him. “She's trapped, Stiles," he said, “Melissa knows how to recognise henbane poisoning as well as Deaton, and if you can convince your husband to let you accompany him to the Bishop’s palace for Misrule then we can do what we talked about in his absence.”

Peter had spoken with Deaton about opening Laura’s tomb for two reasons, one to remove the things that were hidden there from Kate, mostly items from the chapel that she would have been quick to sell or melt down for her personal gain, and to check if Laura had died as blackfaced as Harris had been.

Stiles let him know that he would do his best, as he was sure the manor would enjoy it's early nights of twelfth night without him.

Stiles also said that he thought that a little henbane in her wedding cup would not go astray.

“Raf McCall will have her strung up on a gibbet by Easter, dear boy," Peter said, taking the tray, “it's why I suggested him. She’ll be his problem then, not yours, and I bring him evidence that she is the viper we know her to be, he has no love for Gerard Argent either. I wouldn't be surprised if he didn’t agree to this wedding not for the rent rebate as he says but to thumb it in the nose of Argent himself. He’ll go to Edinburgh and let him know he is now holding the sword over Kate’s head and that whatever he wanted from the Hales is over, and he’ll do it in front of the king. Patience, little one, worrying over much will not do you well.

“Bishop Finstock is quite mad but he puts on a wonderful spread.” He then walked off with a sway of his hips that would not have looked inappropriate on a courtesan. Peter had a plan, Stiles thought, he had to trust that.

That night they argued in their room as Keziah brushed out Stiles’ hair for bed. He had always insisted that Keziah prepare him for bed before Derek barged in, mostly to spare Keziah's blushes as Brett tugged on Derek's boots before he was hustled out in case he saw something he should not.

Derek did not mind Stiles’ nudity as much as the idea of someone else seeing him with his hair down, and it always seemed to be either Brett or Liam who caught the worst of it.

Keziah was brushing Stiles hair, not yet to braid it when Derek bustled in and told her to get out. Keziah was usually prepared to make a huffing breath in her sizeable chest and tell Derek that she was not going anywhere until she was finished but took one look at him and changed her mind quite severely.

She patted him on the head, passed him the comb and reminded him to be sure to brush his teeth with salt and sage before he went to bed, and pulled the door closed behind her. There would be one of the servants, not Keziah, but possibly Heather or Caitlyn would sleep in front of the door in case of drafts. They mostly took it in turns, but there was a window between her leaving and the new one arriving which was when Derek usually appeared to undress when Stiles was tucked up in bed with the curtains closed.

“Not his,” Derek said, ghosting his hand over Stiles’ hair which was down, falling down his back and preventing Stiles from braiding it, as it was only half combed. “Mine.”

“Where has this come from?” Stiles asked turning on his stool to look up at Derek, who dipped down and kissed him. Stiles was wearing his hose and shirt, but the rest of him was exposed. His shirt hung open at his neck to show the torc on his throat. He always felt strangely exposed like this although he was covered from collar to heel as he should be, mostly because he felt the cold fiercely and did not care to expose any more skin than he absolutely needed to.

“Hungry," Derek struggled to find the words, “eyes, hungry.”

"I didn't notice," Stiles said, “either of them, besides, they’ll be gone soon enough. I don't like to have Kate in the house, we can say farewell to them together.” He reached up and cupped the back of Derek's neck, pulling him down for a kiss. “You are my husband, I am yours,” he started to fuss at the ties on Derek's jerkin, pulling it back to reveal his shirt, “I only want your eyes upon me.”

Derek grumbled, into Stiles’ mouth. "I like the way you look at me." Stiles said, “it makes me feel wanted, desired, powerful.” He bit small nibbling kisses on Derek's mouth, scraping his teeth, furred as they felt because he was yet to clean them, over his bottom lip. “I like the way you touch me, I love how your hands feel upon me, your mouth. Do you want to touch me, husband.”

He was standing now, and he reached down and tugged up the fabric of his shirt up over his head, letting his hair, still loose fall down. "I know you wished to lie with me with my hair down, will you do wish to do that now, husband, I was wondering if I might accompany you to the Bishop’s palace for his misrule festival? We could do such wicked things upon his fine sheets, but maybe," he moved Derek’s hands to the curve of his waist and the dip of his spine, “for the first time, we could do it here, in our bed.”

“Kate," Derek said and Stiles’ ardour vanished like he had been dunked in cold water. “Wedding night. Best room." Stiles blinked in surprised.

“You wish me to give up my bed for her? When I do not want her in the manor, you wish me to give up my wedding bed for her?”

“No?” Derek's voice went up at the end like it was a question. “Our bed," he said, “solar, room, old bed. Give old bed, our bed in solar. One night. One.”

"I don't like it," Stiles said throwing back the sheets, but he made no attempt to bind up his hair, he would do it later when he had pulled his shirt back on and wrangled Derek into one. The poor laundress had enough work without Derek sleeping naked and dirtying the sheets worse than they would be. Then Stiles decided they might as well sleep naked, the sheets would need to be changed in the morning regardless.

He was going with his husband to the bishop’s festivities and that was that, after all the house would have to be swept down with white sage ashes just to reassure the staff that any curses or hexes that Kate left the house were countered, and Stiles was tired, and he might be pregnant as he still had not had his courses but the midwife pointed out that people missed them all the time for lots of reasons and it only mattered when a few were missed together.

The misrule festival at the palace would be fine, and it would be far away from Kate Argent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> being about 500 words behind today's goal at the moment I am lamenting the decision to have Derek struggle to speak. It seemed like a good idea, oh well, i just need to sprint for the finish, think I can do the four chapters in one day thing again?


	28. Chapter 28

On the day that Kate came back from the convent Stiles made sure to be absent by spending the day with the spinsters, who were the women who carded and spun wool. Where he was known to pass time by using a drop spindle, there was so much to do in the day, and so little time that even five minutes waiting for something else to be complete, like attending the spit in the kitchen, that time needed to be spent doing something else, and creating a few spindles of thread, or plying them together, or moving now dry thread from a niddy-noddy to a swift so it was easier for the weavers to use, all of which were unskilled tasks that anyone with time could perform, so he joined the spinners at their wheels, a more efficient but expensive way of spinning thread, so he was sat carding wool, where he ran it through two brushes with metal spines so that all of the yarn from the fleece ran parallel to make it easier to spin.

They were terrible gossips and more than once Stiles found his face flushed with embarrassment with what they were saying. Stiles should have been surrounded by the ladies of his own court, the wives of the knights, like Parrish, who lived in the manor, and those women would sit with him whilst they worked, and Stiles had been, despite his bastard status, raised in the Queen's court who spoke of the same things just in couched terms he had not understood then, and the queen would prettily blush and the topic would be changed amongst quiet giggles.

The spinsters spoke of their husbands frankly and brayed laughter like donkeys, they even spoke openly about how often they had admired Derek and asked if his ass was as tight as it had looked.

There was tell of a hot summer's day when the pig hut had needed digging out for an expansion, and how all of the knights had stripped to the waist to do it, and they had bent and flexed and wiped the sweat from the brows and every woman in the village had sat on their stoop and watched them with the knights completely unaware of their audience.

Mairi, the oldest, had tales to tell that would curl the hair of a prostitute and was not afraid to share them, so Stiles was laughing and enjoying himself when Heather brought him the news that Mistress Kate had arrived if he wanted to welcome her to the manor.

Stiles told her that he did not and if any of the maids had tasks that they did not need to be present for could bring their work-baskets to the spinner's hall and work there. He made it clear, if they were not absolutely essential to the manor at that moment they were to join him here by the fire, and they would be opening a cask of ale, and they were certainly to invite Mistress Melissa, but not Mistress Kate.

It was not a powerful snub but it was one.

Spinning and carding were not something that would suffer much from being done drunk.

—-

Stiles was a little drunk, and pleasantly merry when he returned to the manor for supper, with Heather leaning against him as they laughed, there had, at one point, around the second cask of ale, a sing song which had been most delightful.

Keziah met him at the door, she had left the spinning some time before, claiming she wished some air but one of her cheeks was bright red as if she had been pinched. Stiles’ inhibitions were greatly lowered by the ale, so he grabbed Keziah's chin. “Did she touch you?” he grated out the question.

“Lamb," she said, “let it go, your lord slapped her hand away for doing so, and did so hard enough to hurt her. It is nothing.” She put her arm around him, “let us get you ready for supper, you are not dressed.”

She dressed him in one of his fine gold wool cotehardies and a heavy red surcoat trimmed in black fur, and a gold diadem to hold his veil in place, the fox fur that he had been given for his wedding was tucked around his neck like a collar, and the ring slid over his sleeve so it would be displayed although the torc was hidden.

“You look beautiful," Keziah said, bussing a kiss on his forehead, “if your mama could see you now. She would be so proud.”

He was a little drunk and he felt the lump in the back of his throat as if he might cry, but he took a deep breath, “thank you," he stammered out.

“Now let's get this over and done with.” Keziah said, “soonest done soonest we can get this bitch from the house.”

Kate was on the stairs as Stiles came down, stepping out from the chapel as if she was devout, but Stiles suspected she was up to something, but he had no idea what it was. “How nice to see you, brother," she said, “I am so glad for my short vacation, but I told you," there was something of a sing-song, “that as soon as Derek returned he would send for me, I suppose," she ran her hand the length of her tunic, in what was a clear sexual gesture, “there is only so much a milk fed little virgin can do.”

Stiles bit back the response. “Dear sister," he growled out, “I am glad that your time in meditation was well spent, why it looks like it has taken years off your face. You almost look young.” He went to push past her but the way was narrow, “it is good to see you well, I am not so vindictive I would wish you ill for what is to come.”

Kate’s face twisted then, “what is to come?” she asked.

"Oh, sister, did no one tell you, you were invited back as my dear husband has found you a new husband, he is so overcome with joy at our marriage he hoped to share it with everyone in his power to do so.” Stiles had thought someone had told her, but he was delighted to find that he was the one who got to do that.

“To McCall?” she asked, “he looks fine enough, has he cast off that shrew of his.”

“Mistress Melissa," Stiles said it calmly, “remains master of Gwynfaolain, but his son is looking for a bride, he is something of a puppy, but I am sure with your experience you can keep up with his hunger."

Stiles could not say that Kate paled at the knowledge but it did look like she had taken a bite of something bitter like a waxed lemon peel. “The boy?" she asked, “he will marry me to the boy?” Then she composed herself, “how convenient, he keeps me at hand without the rumours, the boy is a dolt, and I suppose Derek understands that, why I will barely be an hour's ride away, he could set out in morning and return for supper without you being disturbed at your wifely duties.”

Stiles took a deep breath, angered but not willing to give Kate the satisfaction, he knew Derek was not interested in her sexually, but she seemed to know the exact words to get under his skin.

“He is so delicate about such things, which of course you'd know, and he does not care to share. You should get used to your puppy, you might have a better chance at getting out of your fate. His father knows perfectly well that this is your only way out of a stake in the courtyard, my husband believes you should have some measure of mercy, I disagree.” He smiled sweetly and took her hand, “Derek talks about you, did you know, in his way, and he wants you out of this house.”

“Such a silly boy," Kate said in her most patronising voice. “If you think he's going to tell you the truth.” With that she finally left the stairway, the dark blue of her dress swallowing the light from the torches on the walls.


	29. Chapter 29

Kate’s marriage was a quick affair, hurried and a touch sloppy. Rafael was determined that it be done as soon as possible so he could be on his way to Edinburgh, and to be honest Stiles was determined to get Kate from the house, so although Parrish said that Derek wanted the house to celebrate that wedding the way they had not had the opportunity to celebrate his own marriage, which should have been days of feasting for everyone, including the servants as a show of celebration and generosity, even the servants did not want to make a show for Kate’s wedding, citing the nearness of twelfth night.

Twelfth Night was the major celebration of winter, starting on the day of Christmas it was twelve days of celebrating and feasting ending on the feast of the Epiphany. For those twelve days no one served another save the twelfth night itself when a servant was chosen as lord of misrule, randomly, and then even the lord of the keep must serve him for that one night.

As all of the preparations were already in place for that, with the stores and meats, although Derek had taken the hounds hunting several times to supplement them, the wedding feast was a rather lacklustre affair, and the best pieces of the offal went not to the bride but her new father.

Her groom had been stuffed into an old jacket of Derek's, that had to be let out in the shoulders because Stiles had pointed out he had nothing fine enough, so an old velvet jacket was repurposed, and Kate was made clear that her dress was entirely on loan and would be returned when she left. Something her new father was told explicitly.

Derek might not have shared most of Kate’s wicked deeds but Stiles was not shy about it, and Raf made it clear he did not tolerate theft where she could hear, talking about the eyes he had burned out of a man who had thought to short him. Stiles knew that poachers on the lands McCall held were hung, where it was common to first cut off their fingers, then gouge out their eyes then hung, Rafael did not hesitate as he said that a man with no fingers was still capable, and a man with no eyes was a burden upon his lord.

Stiles might not agree but he could see the logic in it.

Raf was a handsome man, with clear skin he kept fresh shaven, and soft black curls, he had hands like Stiles own, slim and capable, but shoulders that could be used to square a wardrobe and a narrow waist. In contrast, his son was square waisted with thick thighs, and where his father had clearly been a lovely youth he was perhaps too blunt-featured, but it was clear that by the time they sat down to their wedding feast, such as it was, Kate had the boy wrapped around her finger like twine.

She also kept filling his cup, so when the wedding procession led them to their wedding bed the boy could barely stand.

The rest of the revellers remained, Stiles had eventually given over his solar to the McCalls, not Scott, his own chamber was given over for that but the bed was not, and a trundle bed with a fresh straw mattress placed upon it, his own bed was currently in the stores, where he and Derek would share the night.

He drank a little more wine than he would have normally, but he could not say he was incapable when they finally went to bed. There was not a fireplace in the stores, but there was a brazier that was placed under a slitted window so the smoke could be drawn out, and someone had kindly placed a fire in it to take the worst of the chill from the room.

Derek, who had remained staunchly sober, drinking small beer, and barely touching his food had been protective of Stiles all night. He had been complimentary of his dark red dress and gold and black surcoat, he had cupped his rough hands over Stiles' face, so his fingers batted against the coiled rope of his braid that hung at either ear in the current court fashion.

He had struggled for long minutes when he first saw Stiles looking for a word, a compliment in his vocabulary and finding himself lacking. It was clear from the way that he looked at Stiles that it was a compliment but the word was just not there. Sometimes Stiles felt like he was a mouse being watched by a large and rather amicable cat, that the only reason that he was not consumed was the cat’s amusement.

When they got to the stores where their giant wooden bedstead had been set up with their piled flock beds and the down bed as cover, and fresh sheets, tugged back and a hot brick to warm the sheets, Derek bustled him against the side of the bed muttering “beloved" and hiked up Stiles’ skirts, all three layers, and using his hands, cold and a little rough to bring Stiles to a quick orgasm.

Stiles collapsed against the bed face first as Derek used a knife to undo the lacings of his dress and peel him down to his shirt, muttering “mine” and sucking kisses unto the skin he had uncovered on Stiles’ thighs and ass. “Mine” he repeated as he nudged Stiles up unto his hands and knees on the edge of the bed, with thighs spread, and pleasured him with his mouth until Stiles thought he could not think straight, and then he knotted him.

After being knotted, nearly an hour in float when his entire body relaxed to the point of almost lifelessness Stiles was always sleepy, even if he did not intend to sleep so quickly, but just as Stiles had discovered Derek tended to be more amenable to suggestion if he wore his hair down, then Stiles tended to fall asleep, if only for a few minutes without being roused, after being knotted.

Stiles even believe that sometimes that was Derek's intention, but he had sat through a meal where he found everyone talking around him, where Stiles had been a charming and delightful host, as was his duty, and perhaps he was just tired and jealous. Stiles knew, as well, that if he had said no, Derek would have stopped.

—-

Derek was sitting by the brazier with two of his pack at his feet when Brett politely knocked and cracked open the door, entering hand first to make sure that they knew he was there and he had the other hand over his eyes as he crept in. When he noticed Derek at the fire, waving Aodhan and Gwynham to climb into the bed and protect his mate.

He met Brett in the hall. “My lord, I am so sorry to disturb you,” Brett was terrified of Derek and Derek was not quite sure why. “There was a raid on one of the crofts to the south, you are needed. Shall I rouse the men?”

Derek nodded. Then scratched his beard as he considered what he had to do. He could dress himself for battle quickly enough, and he could get Parrish to leave a note for Stiles so that he would not worry when he woke. He had slept poorly these past few days and needed the rest.

Yet his mail was in the room they usually used, rolled up and tied tight, stuffed into a chest so he did not have to think about it, but he could not be reckless if he went into battle, he had a mate now and possibly a pup.

He would need armor, but if Brett was rousing the men, most of whom were in a drunken stupor on the floor in front of the fireplace in the main hall, the fresh rush matting making it comfortable and warm to lie on, then he could not send Brett for the mail.

There was nothing to be done, he would have to fetch it himself. He had been sat in just his shirt before the brazier, for although Stiles clearly felt the cold keenly Derek himself did not, so he was pulling on a leather jerkin as he went up the stairs. His plan was simply to creep in grab the mail coat from where he had dumped it behind a chest - one that Stiles had locked - and creep out, ideally without waking the wedding couple.

He had thought himself successful but when he ducked into the chapel to pull the mail on, without the furore of drunken soldiers and knights trying to dress, but he was bent over with his shoulders in the sleeve when Kate came in.

"I knew you'd come for me," she purred. His mail fell to the floor with a clang as he was so surprised. “I waited,” he turned and found that she was completely naked, a blanket pooled about her feet.

Sometimes when Derek tried to talk to Stiles words got tangled and caught in his mouth, this time they just fell from his head entirely. “No," he finally managed to pick up her blanket and wrapping it around her. “No. Bad." He added.

He considered slapping her, as he had seen men do with whores who would not listen when they refused them. "I know you want me," Kate said leaning up against him so he could feel her breasts against his jacket, “why would you want him, but you had to wait.”

"No,” Derek repeated, and when her hand reached out to caress his crotch he grabbed her hand and snapped her fingers. “NO!” He repeated.

Kate, cradling her hand, seemed to realize her mistake. She had clearly tried something and as soon as the father of her new husband learned of this they would certainly do worse than send her to a monastery. She had one hope left, Derek was clearly leaving, the raiders on the coast pushing their luck before the worst of the winter weather, as cold as it was, if she could be on her way to Gwynfaolain before he returned she might escape execution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try to get another chapter out tonight, but in case I don't 
> 
> dun dun DUN!


	30. Chapter 30

Stiles awoke to a bed shared only by two dogs, at least one of which was snoring, but his husband was absent. This was not as unusual in and of itself, but leaving him with the dogs was unless it had been Bronagh and then Stiles suspected he was watching her and not the other way around.

He ate a quick breakfast in the kitchen and when Kate and her new husband rose, not long after dawn, they were quick to leave, which suited Raf McCall as he was eager to be on his way to Edinburgh and Stiles was so eager to see Kate from the house he was happy to see her go.

It was just past noon when Derek rode back in, splattered with more than just noon. He had clearly returned as fast as he could from whatever it was that he had done and walked up to Stiles and kissed him quite soundly, leaving two muddy marks on his cheeks from his palms.

"Kate." He said firmly. “Stop." Then another pause. “Right.”

“Slow down," Stiles said, “she’s gone, she's their problem now.”

"No." Derek managed. “Kate, armour, stop, god's wounds,” and then he managed a rather fluid tirade of what were obviously curse words in one language or another, but it was not one Stiles spoke.

“Take your time, there is no hurry." Stiles repeated.

Derek looked like he might cry or burst trying to find the words to express himself. “Stop Kate." He managed. “Need stop Kate.”

Stiles nodded, “now why do you need to stop her?” he asked.

“Mail," he tugged at the coat, “room, Brett busy.” He stopped, and then frowned.

“Your mail was in our old room," Derek nodded, “and Brett was busy, did you go to get it yourself.”

“Sleeping." Derek stammered.

“You thought they were asleep." Derek nodded. “They weren't asleep.”

"No, Kate.”

“Kate was awake," Stiles growled out. 

Derek nodded again. “Chapel. Naked.”

“She followed you to the chapel, and she was naked, did she touch you?” Derek nodded again, it was a small gesture and he was looking down at the floor. “You didn't want her to?” 

Derek shook his head, “no, no, said no.”

“You said no and she didn't stop?” Stiles was almost growling it out now.

Derek mimed taking two fingers in one hand and breaking them. When Stiles considered it Kate had kept her hand in a glove. “Pushed," he mimed using both hands to shove someone away. “Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Stiles said, wondering now if Derek had thought that Stiles would reject him for Kate approaching him, Derek had pushed her away and had done nothing wrong, but Stiles now wanted to take the spit from the fireplace and drive it up into Kate’s guts, for not only trying to seduce his husband, but causing him such dilemmas and such worry only meant she would put the spit spikes on before she did it, but not the ones after. The spit was only so long after all. “You did nothing wrong.”

Derek leant his face into Stiles' hands. “She is gone, the worry is over.”

"No," Derek protested, but he was so flustered and worried that all he could do was grit his teeth together because the words weren't there.

“She's their problem now, not ours," Stiles wanted to say I told you so, but he knew it wouldn't achieve anything. He had gotten Kate from the house. 

“Tell." Derek managed, “need tell.”

“You want to tell them?” Stiles asked.

“Then we shall. The path to the Bishop's palace for the misrule celebrations are on the way, shall we travel there as early as tomorrow. We can call there as we pass, and you can warn them. But for today, can we just appreciate that she is gone?” 

Derek huffed a sigh, before nodding. “Not even she can destroy Rome in a single day.”

“Witch." Derek growled it out.

“I am having the manor cleaned as if she was, there is rowan amidst all of the holly and ivy, just in case.” Derek barked out a laugh. He understood so much but the words seemed to fall out of his mouth when he tried to say them.

He sat down on the bench next to Stiles where he was mending hose with small careful stitches and replacing the gussets of linen shirts. Stiles waved over one of the servants to fetch him something to eat. “Did you sleep at all last night?” he asked him. Derek shook his head. “Did you stop the raiders?” Derek nodded to that. “Are they the same ones who were such a bother all summer?” Derek nodded again. 

"I know that Cook has some pottage on the fire, let's get some hot food into you and you can certainly have a short sleep in front of the fire, is Brett around, there is a pair of felt slippers that I imagine would be a massive improvement on your boots.”

Derek sighed, “unless you'd rather take your bed for a few hours." Derek tugged Stiles by the hand. “I slept all night, love," he said, "I don't need a nap.” Derek gestured with his head, “I can certainly bring my mending to the bedroom and sit with you, but I don't need a nap.” Derek made the gesture with his head again, this time with a little half smile. “No," Stiles laughed, “not even to celebrate. You need to sleep for a few hours and we can discuss that again.” Derek waggled his eyebrows, and Stiles just found himself laughing.

“Eat, sleep a little, and we’ll discuss this then.” He repeated, ushering Derek off the stool and into the larger chair he kept by the fire, during supper the servants moved it to the high table, but it was often put right back there in the morning so Stiles could sit there whilst he worked, because he felt the cold so keenly. Stiles had, at some point during the morning, draped a blanket over it and there was a small stool for his feet, so he took Derek to their bedchamber to change, pulling a felt tunic on over his shirt instead of the stiff leather and heavy mail, dumping those for Brett to clean properly, and a pair of bright red felt slippers with pointed toes, which Derek raised an eye at but dutifully slipped on, and went down and let Stiles hand him a bowl of hot beef pottage, made with the leftovers from the day before's wedding feast, and sat in the big chair by the fire, and was asleep before he’d finished the last spoonful.

Stiles took the blanket off his shoulders and draped it over his knees, letting him sleep. He looked like he needed it desperately.

When he was sure that Derek was dead to the world, the food, comfort and heat making quick work of him, Stiles went to find Parrish, he left word with Peter that they would be leaving early for the bishop's festivities and they were to be packed and ready as soon as possible, ideally for the next day. That Derek was asleep in the great hall and not to be disturbed unless the keep was on fire, and that Kate had attempted to seduce Derek and been unsuccessful in case that altered Peter’s plans. When Peter asked about it, Stiles admitted that Derek had, to Derek's own knowledge, snapped two of her fingers for doing it, but he hadn't noticed it himself when she had left so quickly.

Parrish was in the stables and Stiles repeated what he had learned, and asked that someone is sent to the bishop's palace to alert him that they would be arriving early. Parrish assured him that his grace wouldn't care, and in most cases didn't notice, but Stiles still wanted to observe the formalities at least.

He had the overwhelming feeling that everything was rushing towards some sort of cataclysm that he could not avoid, and he wanted as much as possible in place, just in case.

He asked Boyd for a knife, a little thing he could keep on a thigh garter, for protection. Boyd raised an eyebrow but gave him one with a small leather belt that could be knotted about his thigh. “For protection," he repeated but clearly didn't believe a word of it. He gave him a second one, small and curved, set with precious stones, for his chatelaine so it could hang with his keys and measuring stick from his belt. Stiles got the impression Boyd was more aware of things than he was credited with.


	31. Chapter 31

It took two days for the travel to the Bishop’s palace to be finalised. It was a six-day journey with the carriage so Stiles did his best to veto that as he hated travelling at the best of times, and travelling in the carriage would just slow everyone down, and it meant reducing the travel time in half if they carried what they needed on pack horses.

Keziah had created for him a new cape, in heavy red velvet that she had found in the stores, embroidered with designs from the Holy Land, and trimmed in white fox and sable. There were matching gloves and a hood that went under the cape's own so it sat as a hat keeping his head warm under a halo of white fur. She had him mittens lined with rabbit and she had clearly been working on them since they had arrived. It was possible that the fabrics were from the Queen and kept quiet in Stiles’ dower. It was like her to do that.

There was a heavy riding dress and habit, which she dressed him in, clucking that she would not be able to accompany him in the outriders who went ahead, travelling instead with the wagons. Kate’s predations had meant that the stores were rich with jewellery and fabrics, for although she had had them made into dresses Stiles refused to wear them, so they were repurposed when they could not be sold. Kate was shorter than Stiles, although not by much, so her dresses would have scandalously shown his ankles in the Nordling fashion, which was completely inappropriate for an omega, so they were cut down to make jackets, or given to servants in place of livery, or into strips to add to existing clothes. It was a large saving as fabric was expensive and they had a lot of new clothes that were currently in production thanks to Kate’s greed. In the near three weeks since Stiles had sent her to the monastery, all of the squires had new doublets, and two of the maids already had new capes, if not cloaks. There was a lot of goats wandering the lands that the crofter’s kept and the dull grey goat's wool was not valuable for sale, but was warm, better at keeping out the rain, and lighter than it's woolen counterpart, even if it wouldn't take dye, meaning they had dull tan or grey patchy colouring and when people bought yarn or broadcloth they wanted it coloured.

What new clothes Stiles had Keziah had made for him, and carefully packed with branches of dried lavender and thyme so they would smell sweet when he unpacked them for wear in the Bishop's palace. He doubted that Derek's clothes got the same care.

When they had sent word ahead that they were travelling to the Bishop's palace early the Bishop sent word back that maids would be provided from the bishop’s own staff, because apparently, God knows he needs to find half of these people work, he wasn't sure who had hired them or what they did but they were always underfoot, and to basically bring themselves and clothes because the bishop was generous. Cook said that the rant was the bishop and the rest was probably his chamberlain. The bishop was wealthy and generous, and, according to Cook, invited Derek every year because he hunted, thus providing a large amount of free meat.

It was a lovely clear day when they set out. Derek in the lead with Matt to the side of Stiles getting the stink eye every time he tried to strike up a conversation with him, or if Stiles struck up a conversation with him, and then Derek would huff and drop his head when Stiles raised an eyebrow.

Derek liked to deny it but he seemed to be jealous of anyone who tried to strike up a conversation with Stiles. He had left Parrish looking after the manor with Boyd although Boyd and Peter certainly didn't need the help. Boyd and Peter got along perfectly happily when neither pushed against what they other considered to be his domain, and they didn't have to interact. So Parrish, who had been left as an intermediary, was caught between them mostly because Derek was jealous.

They stopped for lunch, fresh rabbit potted in its own grease and fresh butter and warm pan breads fried in front of them, and wine from skins hung on the horses. Derek made sure that Stiles beside him and glared at any of his men who offered him a kindness, before resting a gloved hand on Stiles’ knee. “Overprotective lump," Stiles said fondly, “I don't know why you're so jealous, you married an ugly omega." Derek's face screwed up like he was offended, "I knew it in court, but you make me feel beautiful.”

"No," Derek said firmly, and cupped Stiles face in his hand, the suede of his glove rough against Stiles’ skin. “Mine, beloved.”

“That doesn't mean anyone else wants me, love, and that’s fine, you want me and that’s enough for me.”

Derek shut him up with a kiss before they cleared up their things at the end of their lunch, and then he helped Stiles onto his horse. Aodhan was accompanying them because Derek didn't feel right unless at least one of them was by his side, but the rest wished to stay with Bronagh and her new pups who were just opening their eyes but were still too young to romp.

They planned to stay at Gwynfaolain for the evening as it was on the way and as Derek was their liege they had to give him shelter, it would also give Derek chance to tell the McCalls the truth about Kate which seemed to weigh heavily upon him. Stiles was sure he would probably be called upon to negotiate but he was a little glad when the walls came into view. As it darkened the chill day because a brittle vicious cold and it would be nice to get inside, rather than having to camp, even if they house was keeping Kate too.

The gates were open to their entry but as soon as they approached the gate a bow twanged and an arrow landed between the front legs of Derek's gelding causing it to rear back, in trying to control it a flurry of arrows followed it, causing Derek's knights to throw up their shields, which they had only been carrying on their saddles as decoration and close in. “Defend!” Stiles shouted, pulling the small dagger that he had under his belt, just to protect himself, as the soldiers, men he did not know, fell, riddled with arrows.

“This is lord hale!” Matt shouted as Derek drew his sword, “your lord and liege, where is your master?”

He was silenced by an arrow to the throat.

Derek wheeled his horse close in towards Stiles as Aodhan joined the fight, now that the arrows had been spent he leapt into the press of men who came forward, using his weight and his teeth to carve a path. Those who had dismissed Aodhan as simply a large family pet learned that moment of their mistake as he bit down and tore at whatever flesh he could through their leather armour and mail. He was a demon of fur and fang and torn meat and blood.

One man in a full mail shirt and tabard, although Stiles did not recognise the coat on it, fell back clutching his thigh, there was blood oozing from the fabric and when he cried out Gwynfaolain's soldiers closed in tight, putting the soldiers to the sword.

“Husband," Kate said, stepping out, “you caught him for me, but you are hurt.” The man with the dog bite on his leg pulled off his helmet to reveal that it was Scott, the young McCall lord, where his mother was to allow this Stiles did not know, but the boy was completely in Kate’s palm, and Kate knew it to try something so reckless.

Stiles spat. “Aodhan!” He barked. “Go, find Parrish!” at the same time Derek shouted “WITCH!” Loud enough for all of the men gathered to hear.

“Witch!" Stiles took up the shout. “We came to warn you, that once we had cast her out and the priest came to sweep away her sorceries we saw clear. We rushed here to warn you. She is a witch!” The last thing Stiles saw before a shield crashed into his face was Aodhan running down the road, fast despite his bulk and dodging the arrows as if they were not there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to endgame


	32. Chapter 32

Stiles woke up in a small tower room. It had been freshly strewn with rushes, three layers deep, and a blanket had been draped over it that they might have seating, but other than an iron pot for a fire, now empty, it had no furniture. There was the firepot, a single blanket, and both he and Derek.

Derek had, at some point after Stiles was knocked unconscious, wounded. It looked like someone had taken a dagger and stabbed him where young McCall had been bitten. It had been inexpertly bound, and they had both been stripped down to their shirts to make escape impossible. 

Derek sounded tired when he spoke “Beloved," he said and reached up to cup Stiles palm. 

“She threatened me to get you to behave, didn't she?” Derek nodded, as Stiles huddled up against him for warmth, pulling the blanket over Derek's lap before he pulled up his shirt to look at the wound on his thigh. It was clean but weeping blood and it was clear he would not be able to put any weight on it. It needed stitching or he would bleed out, the bandage upon it soaked through with blood and only the tightness of it's fastening had prevented him losing more blood. There was a packet of old cloth under his leg that caught some of the blood.

It angered Stiles to see it.

It was clear Kate had done it for spite, because once Stiles was rendered unconscious Derek wouldn't have risked him. Stiles knew that.

Derek reached out and touched Stiles’ head, and then frowned, and when Stiles reached out to cup his hand he found that his hair had been cut close to his scalp. Judging by how long he had been unconscious, long enough to be undressed almost to the skin and brought up here, probably over someone’s shoulder, he had the impression he had, whilst he was knocked out, given a drug to keep him under. 

Stiles didn't know how he felt about his hair being cut away, except that his head was both light and cold. It was as if a very powerful weight had been lifted from his neck and his head felt loose and unchained without it. He had always had long hair, as soon as it was long enough to grow to any length it was encouraged to do so and bound away from him, so there were few times when it was down to be a nuisance, but it was a nuisance that he was used to.

He could process the loss later. There were other things they needed to worry about, like the cold. Only the single blanket, the rush floor and each other were all they had to keep them warm. Derek's leg needed stitching if he was to even survive this without gaining an infection, and as far as they knew Kate was in control.

He just didn't know why she hadn't killed him already.

His own shirt was longer than Derek's’ so he found the hem and tore it a little way, giving himself an inch or so of fabric and hem, and then carefully bit away at the edge he had made to create a tear where he could rip away the fabric to form a cleaner bandage, which he wrapped around Derek's’ thigh.

“You have worse scars than this," Stiles told him matter of factly, “you are going to be fine." Derek rolled his shoulders, “You have to be,” Stiles' voice wavered because he could not stop it. “I still haven't had my courses, I refuse to have a baby without you." Derek reached up and offered him a smile, faint though it was, and wiped away his tears with his thumb, then tried to push Stiles behind him when the door opened.

It was Melissa. "I am sorry for this," she said, “you sent a witch into my home, and I am angry, but," she calmed herself as a servant carried in a pile of faggots and some kindling, and another a clay pot of soup, “Kate is not mistress here, I am. My son is wounded and like to die from the bite your dog gave him." She stopped and composed herself, “but the dog attacked because you were attacked. Whilst my son lies in his bed I cannot command the men which were placed under his control, but the house is mine. You will not go hungry." A third servant, that Stiles had not seen before came in and placed clothes and blankets. “I am sorry, I may not care for you but you are my lord and I remember that.”

“She’s desperate.” Stiles said, “she knows if she fails here she’s bound for the stake.”

“Your husband's proclamation swayed some of the men but they can't disobey, they just do not obey so keenly." Melissa said, “There is a cap for your hair. I was in the kitchen garden, I was unaware of what happened until I returned to the gates barred to entry and the land littered with arrows, and two of the kitchen lads sent to fetch them.

“A needle and thread." Stiles said, "I need them, she has stabbed her lord, raised a blade against him, you know the sentence for that.”

“And that is the only bargaining chip I have for my son." She said. “That he is ensorceled, she has spun a web around him that reason cannot enter. She told him that for years you, my lord," she looked at Derek, “raped her and held her hostage and that she used the innocence of you, my lord," She looked at Stiles, “to escape him at the monastery but you summoned her back, and that you would come for her.”

“We were on our way to the Bishop's festival of Misrule.” Stiles said bluntly, “we came in to warn you that Kate is a witch and an adulteress, that she came to my husband on her wedding night and stood before him naked, and in response, he broke her fingers.”

“She told my son that he broke her fingers because she refused him.” Melissa told them.

“She seduced the wardrober Harris to squander the goods of Dubhfaolain and when she was revealed she poisoned him. We came to warn you on our way to the festival. We will be missed.” Stiles was behind Derek's arm, but he was still trying to protect Derek.

“Raising your hand, let alone steel, against your liege lord is a death sentence.” Melissa repeated, “that means if my son survives this you will put him to death.”

Derek growled. 

“Your son is ensorceled." Stiles said, “the way that we were until we cast her out. I sent her to the monastery because I did not succumb. She convinced my husband I was merely jealous and fabricated my charges against her. Give me a knife now and I shall slit her throat.” Stiles had a thought then, they had undressed him to his shirt, and he had not checked but Boyd had given him a knife to tie to his thigh and even the most brazen of Kate’s men would not dare to touch the Hale beast's omega on the skin. He flexed his thighs looking for the garter and found it present. He didn't have much, but he had a knife.

“Let us go and we shall certainly bear that witness to the bishop, but for my husband to be able to ride we need needle and thread, and fresh bindings for his wound.

“Promise me you will not kill my son," Melissa repeated, “he’s a fool but he is all I have.”

Stiles cupped his hand over his own belly, it was a shameless attempt to try and win the woman's sympathy and he was long past the point of caring if it worked. He understood her desperation but he was the prisoner here. “I understand, we can certainly do what we can, the bishop might require him to serve in the Holy Land as penitence but we shall argue that he offers him clemency. He is ensorceled.”

Melissa looked relieved when Stiles said that, “as soon as he is healed I shall have his men set you free." She said, one of the servants came forward and made a fire in the iron pot with steel and flint, and left the clay pot for them. “I shall send a needle and thread, and some tea for your belly, I remember how hard it was.”

When she was gone, the door locked and Stiles was sure that she had descended the steps. “I’m still not sure," he said, “but I’m not above using it.” 

He took the pile of clothes which was mostly suitable for a male beta, a workman or a labourer, and pulled on pants and a warm tunic, helping Derek into a knee length tunic and some warm hose. The fire helped warm the room but the chill had been given time to sink into the walls and it would take more than one small iron pot to warm the room. If they ran out of faggots, which looked likely, they could certainly lift some of the rushes from the floor and burn them.

The politics of the place seemed set, Melissa was mistress of the manor but Rafael had, in his wisdom, left the control of his men to his son, and Melissa could not countermand that, so she could not remove the guard at their door, or set them free, but she could do her best to see them fed and warm. She should have had them removed to the finest room in the manor but she had only Stiles word that he would beseech the bishop for clemency if Scott survived the bite to his thigh, and if her son died what little leverage they had with her was gone. If she let them die she could blame Kate who all of the manor had heard Derek call a witch, and it would be her that was hunted and killed. If Melissa slit her throat she would not be held accountable, but whilst Scott lived, although caught between life and death as she implied he was, Melissa could act neither against them, in case Scott lived, or Kate whose help she would need if Scott died.

They only thing they could do was wait for Parrish and hope Aodhan had found his way to him.

Derek found a wool cap in the pile of clothes and offered it to Stiles with a smile, then cupped his hand around Stiles’ face again and murmured, “beloved.”


	33. Chapter 33

Melissa kept true to her word, offering every comfort that she could without openly countermanding her son, and thus her husband's orders that he was to be obeyed as if he was himself giving the orders.

A trundle bed was brought in for them to lie upon and a physicker and apothecary to treat the wound on Derek's leg. She had told them that she convinced Kate that they would make better hostages, simply because they knew there would be inevitable retribution from either Dubhfaolain or the Bishop, who was known to be very fond of Derek and who was expecting him after all. Derek's squire, Brett, was already at the palace so when his lateness became obviously missing they would retrace their steps, and thus find out what had happened in short order.

It was clear that before falling into his fever that the boy had commanded that they were imprisoned here in this tower room, but Melissa still treated them like they were fine guests. They were given the finest cuts of meat with the richest parts of the fat, and fine pottage with the bottom crust cut from the bread. There were fine wines, and spirits, and she gave Stiles what she believed to be his psalter, unaware that it was a romance dressed to look like one.

So Stiles took the opportunity to help Derek with both his words, not allowing him to simply gesture to make his will known, although he was clearly in pain and it made him grumpy, frustrated, which made him grumpier, and bored which made him angry, all circumstances which in and of themselves made him non-verbal.

When Stiles suspected it was too much for him he would take the psalter and stop having Derek sound out the words letter by painstaking letter and then repeat them back, then when the sentence was complete repeating back the entire phrase so Derek had no idea of the story he was being told, until Stiles went back to the beginning of what they had read together and read it back to him, with cadences and inflections, making sure to highlight the words that Derek had had trouble with.

He knew, however, it would take more than a few days until Derek was a capable reader, never mind a comfortable one like Stiles. To make matters more frustrating Derek was clearly fascinated by the story of King Horn and the fair Rymenhild and wanted Stiles to continue long past the point where the light made it viable.

At night they would huddle together in the small trundle bed with its straw mattress, under the few blankets that Melissa had given them and talked, the room still too cold even with the fire, to do anything but cling to each other for heat, and Stiles often woke with Derek running his fingers over his shorn hair almost reverently, and the back his head pillowed in the palm of Derek's large hand, the other cradled over Stiles' belly.

Stiles could not be sure that he was pregnant, but nor could be sure that he was not. The only symptom he had was that he had missed his courses, but there were many things that could stop the flow in an omega's body, and a baby was only one of them. He had certainly missed one and the second was late, so in ideal situations, he would think of pregnancy as a wondrous gift, but right now it was just another thing to use against him, so he hoped that it was merely being overwrought. He had no idea how long it would take until either Kate was pushed to absolute extremity, McCall woke up or died, or the bishop arrived.

Until then the promise of a baby was not a joyous one because if Kate learned that he was with child she would have him dragged into the square and beaten with rods until the child was lost- if she did not slip some henbane in his tea. It was only her complete lack of interest in running a household, instead of ruling one, that meant she had no knowledge of the courtesies that Melissa gave them.

Melissa had made it clear to Kate that they were worth more as hostages or they would be dead. She had pushed young McCall to the point of madness, there had probably been promises that he could take Dubhfaolain for his own, or that they would be happy together in France where the king could not punish him for what he had done, for as much as he might ignore it Derek was McCall's liege lord, and his life was forfeit as soon as he raised arms against him.

Holding him hostage for his own escape would not grant him clemency in the eyes of those who came to rescue them.

But the days slid by until Stiles was sure that Aodhan had not made it to Dubhfaolain, that the Bishop did not care that they were held, and young McCall hovered between life and death.

The only consolation Stiles had was those hours spent reading with Derek.

He did not think he would get to finish the story before Kate came in at night and slit their throats.

She had taken his torc, and he found himself gnawing on the sides of his thumbnail with one hand and rubbing the calluses it had left on his collar bone with the other when Derek slept and he worried. She had taken his hair and his jewellery and his fine cloak. He had seen her walk through the courtyard wearing it through the window, but for all that she acted like a queen she could not stay here, and with winter so close about, so that the hoar frost hung like fingers from the empty tree, she could not escape to France.

The maids and women of the keep shied away from her, and Melissa made it clear she was not welcome, but she still took what she wanted, playing the role of the dutiful wife, as long as she did not have to go near her husband, but she did so wearing the wedding jewels of Dubhfaolain and not Gwynfaolain. She still behaved as if she was Laura’s wife, and as time passed, and Stiles having little to do once the sun went down but to think, Derek's wound healing nicely and needing little care for the physicker certainly knew his job.

So when Melissa came in on what might have been the eighth day, it was hard to tell the exact passage of time for he had not known how long he had lain insensate and he wasn't sure of how good Derek was with numbers that he might ask him. Derek got more frustrated if he was asked things he did not have words for, as opposed to those he had words for but could not find, Stiles was not surprised when she told him she believed her son was dying.

“Henbane.” Stiles said, “ask your physicker to treat him for henbane, has Kate been alone with him?”

Melissa admitted that she had.

“I imagine it's poison then,” Stiles said bluntly, “it's how she has removed all of those in her way so far if your son dies she can claim it was all his decision and she was a poor pawn in it because that is what she does. Decry her a witch, let the bishop deal with it. Do you agree that a man of the cloth cannot be so ensorceled?”

Melissa knew what it meant if she did send for the bishop, what power she had over Stiles and Derek would be gone, she could no longer bargain for them.

"I shall speak to the physicker," She said, as the servant put down the tray of food for them, “if she agrees that he has been poisoned then I shall send for the bishop and she will be tried as a witch.”


	34. Chapter 34

Stiles awoke to an almighty crash and Derek turning him over in the trundle bed so that Derek's chest was pressed against his, his legs, one of which was wounded but healing well,were between Stiles, and his pintle pressed against Stiles’ thigh. Before Stiles had a moment to process it there was a second crash and Derek tugged the blanket up over their heads as a cloud of dust fell from the ceiling.

Derek, it seemed, was not feeling amorous, as Stiles had assumed, but instead had thrown his own body over Stiles to protect him because the manor was under attack.

It might have been their rescuers, or someone else Kate had angered as she swanned about the place like a queen in borrowed finery. She was trading on how the peasants and soldiers recognising her as noble and obeying rather than inspiring any loyalty in them.

From what Stiles could gather from Melissa and what he could see from their small window the servants and soldiers of Gwynfaolain despised her as much as those of Dubhfaolain.

A third crash resounded and the tower shook with the blow. 

Whoever was attacking the manor was using a seige engine. This was what had held back Parrish's attempt at rescue, he had not only gathered the men, he had found the machinery of war that had been held in storage and brought it. Aodhan had brought help and when Stiles got out of this that hound was going to get the whole belly of a pig, where the richest, fattiest meat was to be found. He had certainly earned it. And Stiles murmured it in Derek’s ear where he was lying on top of him.

The crashing ended with shouting, Stiles could hear the man but he couldn't make out what he was saying. Perhaps Derek could because he quickly climbed off Stiles, and pulled on his boots. 

Stiles hiked up his tunic and revealed the knife tied to his thigh. Derek had known it was there, but he tried to hand it to his husband but Derek refused it. 

When the latch on the door was unlocked and the door tried, Derek used the handle of the metal pot that held the fire, with a bloodied cloth to protect the skin of his palm, ready to throw it. The air was already sweet with smoke. 

Melissa opened the door. “Come on.” She said, “Kate has set a fire in the thatch, the whole place will burn unless we hurry.” She went to Derek and offered herself to help carry his weight like a crutch, with Stiles on the other side. “You can stop this, you can stop them throwing stones at us, the walls will not hold. Your man came these weeks past," she continued as they made their way down the stairs, “he pointed out that the south west wall was weak and needed remortared, it was on the Spring's tasks, so he knows to target it. He's like a mad man, he’s not stopping, if he thinks we hurt you,”

Stiles wondered if the hollering, which was continuing unabated was Parrish, who always seemed to quiet and meek. Most of the soldiers had thrown down their arms but their man at arms was shouting and hollering himself, telling them to support the gate, to man the wall, but it looked to be a death sentence for the men he was using a whip to harry. They could see them through the arrow slits.

“The physicker spirited my son away last afternoon, he believes he can gain more from being in his care at his house, there is no one to stop this but you, my lord." It was the first time she had addressed Derek by his title. “I beg of you, please, help us.”

For a long moment it looked like Derek would say no, and Stiles would not have been surprised if he had. Instead he used his words, “why?” he asked.

Melissa looked like she had been gored as she took him into the kitchens, the fire in the grate had been allowed to go quiet it was so early in the morning, barely past dawn, and the women who would have been baking the day’s bread were sequestered somewhere safe from the barrage and the fire. “We wronged you, my lord, and I cannot apologise enough for that, but I have done what I can, but these men and women, these servants and peasants and soldiers, did what they were told, and the one who told them was evil. They had no choice, I will go to the gibbet for what was done to you, I accept my place in this, but for them. Please." She said, “stop him.”

“Beloved," Derek said. 

Perhaps he hoped Stiles would make the judgement for him, or he trusted that Stiles would intuit what he wanted, but he was doing with Stiles what he had always done with Parrish before, trusting him to be his voice.

“you are a victim in this," Stiles said, choosing to be merciful, “I understand you acted to protect your home and your son when we very easily could destroy you, and you know and appreciate that. If your husband were here this would never have happened, although I do not doubt Kate would have tried to lift her skirts for him, to gain influence. Your son is a fool, but he is your son." Stiles splayed his own hand over his belly, as if a child lingered there although he still wasn't sure, there were no symptoms other than his courses, and he had heard tell of a woman who had had none for a year but still there was no child. She had died not after of a growth in her belly, but the point stood. There were lots of reasons why someone might miss their courses, of which pregnancy was only one. Still he was not above using it to his advantage, Melissa believed he was with child, and that allowed him to create a simpatico with her.

“If he survives this you will take him for a life of seclusion and prayer, that he might think upon his mistakes, about how easily a lifted skirt fooled him, and pray yourself that you might have another child, you are yet young enough.” For a moment Melissa looked like she might say something, before she tugged the veil from her head to reveal her tight black curls, there were a few white strands in the mass, but she was not yet so old that she might not have another child. There were other ways, Rafael could easily take another lover, a younger one, and the child be adopted as her own, and presented as her own. It was something commonly done at court, Stiles himself was a bastard. The McCall family did not have to be destroyed by the boy's wilful mulishness. "I have heard that the Mont-Saint-Michel in Normandy is in need of strong young men to help with it’s construction.”

Stiles thought about it, how distraught Melissa looked, how much he missed the Queen in Edinburgh and Keziah who had been like mothers to him. “Ten years," he said finally, “your son will serve in Mont-Sant-Michel for ten years, with any task that they ask of him. He will return young yet, and strong, he will learn what squiring failed to teach him. At that time, if he has learned what needs to be learned, humility and knowledge when a woman lies to gain her own way, he can return to your household.”

Stiles thought that if he had been wearing skirts that Melissa would have dropped to her knees and kissed the hem of them. That was how grateful she looked at Stiles’ mercy. “For his wife there shall be no mercy. She goes to the Bishop.”

At that Melissa hardened and for a second Stiles thought she’d argue for Kate, but she just rolled her shoulders. “Stop the fighting," she said, opening the door to the stairs that led to the walls, “and I’ll hand her over myself.”

 

Instead of climbing the walls, where he risked being squashed by whatever it was that Parrish was loading the catapult with, it was as likely to be a ballista which would have had to be constructed on site but was capable of much heavier projectiles, Stiles went into the courtyard, clutching his knife, but ducking from anyone who came near, until he reached the gate, but although the main gate stood firm the sallyport had been breached and there was a cluster of the Dubhfaolain soldiers and knights fighting there. “Stop!” He bellowed, “STOP!” 

Parrish did not stop.

In the far north, where the raiders came from, there were stories that Stiles had heard of soldiers who put on the skin of wolves or bears and became possessed by the spirit of the creature, running mad until they collapsed from exhaustion. Parrish was like that.

“Parrish!” Stiles yelled, “we're well." But until Wynne, recognisable by the white blaze on his chest pushed his way through the fighting soldiers and leapt at Stiles, for a moment Stiles thought this is it as he fell, this is how I die, before the dog started licking at his face and he landed with a thump on the ground.

It was not Parrish who stopped, it was Boyd, and behind them a dark haired man in fine plate armour was shouting, but most of what he was shouting was nonsense about how this had completely ruined his Misrule gathering because keeping his best hunter from him was simply cruel and unusual and what he was supposed to do, actually have livestock, no one had time for that.

"My lord." Boyd said, helping Stiles to his feet. “It's best to just let him finish.”

“STAND DOWN!" Melissa was bellowing but the soldiers who remained weren't listening, but by the minute more and more of them were fleeing, and those that remained were cut down. Parrish and the men that followed him were ruthless.

It was only when Derek finally made his way out, leaning heavily upon an improvised cane, a bread oar, that Parrish stopped and driving his sword through the belly of the man before him bowed his head.

Derek might be the Hale beast but the men he had surrounded himself with, those who were loyal to him, were just as fierce.

With Wynne standing over him, with most of his weight on his back legs so that he was sheltering Stiles, and growling at anyone who came near, Stiles actually felt safe, cold, damp and a little crushed, but safe.

He remained where he was until Boyd fought his way to him and only then did Wynne relent, and Boyd decided it would be quickest to throw his lord's mari over his shoulder and carried him back through the gate where his own men were.

"I offered her mercy." Stiles stammered out.

“Kate?” Boyd asked.

"No, Mistress Melissa, we're not to harm her, and as few of her men as we can.” He said, when he looked out across the courtyard, through the broken sally port, Derek had snapped the bread oar in two and was using half of it to support himself so he did not tear his stitches and the other half like a bludgeon, smashing it into the heads of any soldier who challenged him. Strangely, Stiles thought, he seemed to be enjoying himself. I am married to a mad man, he thought, but did not pursue the thought in case it frightened him. “Mistress Melissa and her son are to come to as little harm as possible, any man who surrenders is to be offered quarter, and help put that damn fire out.”

The fire was mostly caught in the thatch, but the straw was so damp from the snow it had not yet spread to the rafters and was, rather than truly dangerous for itself, just producing clouds of foul smelling smoke. Boyd nodded his head.

“You the new Hale boy?” the bishop said. He wore brightly polished plate mail and a red surplice over it, like he had confused his ceremonial robes for his armour, “you not going to prevent my best hunter going into my woods are you?”

"No," Stiles said, as one of the squires, he did not recognise the boy, brought him a cape and placed a brick in the fire to warm for his feet. He didn't mean it to sound like a question. “He likes hunting.”

“Good, good," the bishop said, “now what’s this about a witch?” And Stiles couldn't help himself, he burst into tears, so glad to be warm at last, and safe and among his own people when he had been trapped in that tower for so long, and Derek was well, and even Parrish was mostly restrained although he was still bellowing for blood, everyone treated it like it was normal, so he didn't question it.

When the boy hung the cape, warm from his own body, around Stiles shoulders he broke down, which seemed more than anything to terrify the bishop who went looking for Boyd telling him to fix it.

He probably wouldn't feel completely safe until he was back in Dubhfaolain, back in his own bed where Kate had never had any power, but for now he felt safe.

—-

The outriders found Kate on the road, on a fine horse, the one that Stiles had been riding on the day he had been taken, still wearing Stiles’ fine riding cape and jewellery. She had tried to sway the bishop's men but amongst them a man in a black hood stepped forward, and watched the blood run from her face as she commanded them to protect her, how she claimed she had been attacked on the road by bandits and that she needed to be taken to Edinburgh and her father. The sight of Peter’s ruined face seemed to cause the colour to leech itself from her. “Hello, Kate," he said, “the bishop would very much like a word with you.”

Kate, for a moment, looked like she might try to flee, as one of the bishop's men lifted a crossbow. She let the reins fall from her hands, knowing the bishop's men would lead her.


	35. Chapter 35

The bishop’s palace was rich in a way that even the king's court was not.

Parrish, once he had wiped his face and let Liam fuss over him, had said that Bishop Finstock was quite probably crazy but he was a good man, loyal and true to the law. He was rich enough that bribery bored him, and one of his few pleasures was hunting, and he liked to win, so hunting with Derek suited him as Derek hunted like a pack animal with his hounds. 

When Derek went out on the hunt he came back with plenty of meat.

This far into winter boar hunting was most common, most of the other animals being bedded down for the winter. 

The bishop and his own knights had accompanied Derek's out at dawn to hunt with spears, and Aodhan, who was being spoiled, had been given a pennant of his own, a long knitted scarf not unlike that of Bronagh, which she had used as a bed for her pups - still tucked up in Dubhfaolain- which he wore with pride, walking with his head and tail held high in a step that Stiles was inclined to call a mince.

All of the Hale hounds were giant, fierce beasts, quick to tear the throats from those who threatened their pack, but also silly creatures who loved being brushed and preened when they did.

That first night in the bishop's palace Stiles had been restless, unable to sleep. The hounds had been lain on a great rug by the fire and he missed his hair most keenly. Derek, a little drunk and over fed, had fallen asleep almost as soon as he had fallen into the bed, large and fine with polished linen sheets, and a thick down cover, with velvet coverlets.

Finstock did not skimp on luxury where he could offer it, though he himself seemed to prefer simple things.

Stiles had lifted the brush laid out for his hair, and the heavy comb, and then made a decision. “Aodhan," he said, moving over to the fire, “have you ever been brushed?”

He had not thought that the dog would enjoy it, for there were large mats and burrs in his coats, and an entire pinecone in the fur around his neck where it was longest, Stiles had laughed, throwing it into the fire, and when he had done with Aodhan, Wynne shouldered his brother out of the way and flopped down across Stiles’ leg that he could receive the same attention to detail.

Judging by the amount of leaf litter and things like small bones he got from their fur, not because they were dirty just that their hair was long and there was only so much that could be removed by determined feet or teeth, and places where neither could reach, they dislike baths as much as Derek did.

When they had left for the hunt Stiles watched them go knowing he'd spend that night grooming them again.

At least Parrish could tumble Derek into the bath.

It also said how trusting the hounds were of Stiles, because when one of the men in Finstock’s court had offered out a hand for friendly skritches he had nearly lost that hand.

They were not lap dogs like those that were about the court.

So Stiles sat before the fire, with a harp - it was not his own and he was sure at least one of the strings needed a better tuning than it had recieved and it felt odd in his hands - sipping spiced wine and playing soft music as the bishop’s court continued on without him as he hunted.

Although he was dressed appropriately, both for his gender and his status, in a red velvet cotehardie and a silk surcoat trimmed in soft squirrel fur, with a squirrel fur collar, without his hair he felt like an imitator.

There was one other married omega in his court, a lady, who had taken one look at Stiles and instantly sniffed disdainfully and snubbed him. She was married to a lord whose rank was similar enough to Derek's but clearly had more wealth if less influence at court. 

Stiles had spent the rest of the evening looking for ways to remind himself that she was neither nice or pretty.

The upcoming trial, held off for the sole purpose that Finstock wanted to hunt, certainly didn't help the gossip. 

Stiles knew none of these people, so he was quite surprised when the girl sat with him. Her hair was a beautiful burnished bronze colour and neatly arranged in two thick braids with black silk laces woven through them. She sat next to him on the bench, “do you need me to fetch you some more wine?” she asked. Her voice was deep and scratchy, as if she had a terrible head cold, she was very lovely and wore a dark green velvet cotehardie with giaor, although those were not necessarily fashionable, with pretty red slippers under her skirts, the toe of which was visible the way that she sat.

He thanked her but refused, "I’m Lydia," she said with a smile, “I am to be married to Jordan," Stiles had a frown, “Knight Parrish, I understand he serves your husband. I was hoping that we might make acqutaintance with each other,” she looked young although Stiles suspected she might be of an age with him. The past few weeks had felt like they had aged Stiles terribly.

Stiles introduced himself properly, and admitted that he had thought that upon marriage that Parrish would move out of Dubhfaolain.

Lydia's laugh was a delightful noise, high and girlish. “But who then will be in your court?” she said, “there is of course, her," she looked across at the other omega, “vile creature, she has a temper as awful as her complexion. I doubt she is as bad as that bitch in the cells, but she has a tendency to take that temper out on her servants, I would sooner give an incontinent goat house room,” and she continued without giving Stiles a chance to argue, “and once you have the place back to what it was you will have more time and do you really want to spend it with the knights, they all drinks so much beer, if they are like my father’s they will be farting all night long, it is well for keeping a bed warm, but,” and Stiles couldn't help but laugh out loud.

“I had thought a good omega like yourself would not know about the habits of flatulent knights?”

“I still share my bed with my nurse," Lydia admitted, “and she is flatulent enough for three knights, tell me, is your dear husband as bad, or does he blame the dogs like my father?”

“Oh no, he admits such," Stiles told him, "I’m the one who blames the dogs.”

Lydia's voice dropped down a little when she spoke, "I am not supposed to know, for they have gotten it into their heads that omega are far too fragile to know about what is going on in the world if they find it unpleasant, but I eavesdrop like a master, Mistress Kate is in the cells as you know." Stiles admitted that he did. “She has pled the belly.”

Stiles lip curled and the note at his hands went wrong, causing an unpleasant twang to echo through the room and everyone turned to look at him, he had managed the conversation with Lydia without error.

“Finstock doesn't believe her, he's sent for a piss prophet, he will be here tomorrow. I have heard word that you think you might be pregnant.”

“Parrish is clearly the worst gossip in Scotland." Stiles hissed, “more people seem to be sure of my fecundity than I have met.”

“Gossip is all most of these people have, and you're right, he is a terrible gossip, he is sweet and dear and shall make a fine husband, but I shall never be short of news.” She offered him a sweet smile. “Shall I arrange a meeting with the piss prophet? He shall give you answers, one way or another.”

“Do you know what will happen to Kate?” Stiles asked.

“I don't know much," she said in the way of people who tended to know everything that was ongoing, and then some, “Finstock has branded her on the face and went to cut out her tongue, but before then she claimed she was with child. He does not believe her, and according to Parrish she was with her new husband barely two weeks if that, so the chances that she is with child or knows it are slim, if it is his.” She stopped, “and if she is pregnant," she emphasised the is, “it means she was an adulteress. None believe the claim that she was violated by your husband, but," she stopped, “if she is with child she will be held in the church until it is born and then she will be executed, there will be a farce of a trial. Finstock has enough to destroy her, but he has recieved word from the king to draw it out and to make sure everything is documented. I think he's going to go against her father. I do know that Peter Hale has gone to Edinburgh after delivering her here. I also suspect,” she paused, “that she thinks there is away out of this if she has enough time, and she’s trying to buy herself more with lies. Hence Finstock sent for the piss prophet.”

A piss prophet was a man who served the royal court whose job was to confirm pregnancies and help predict of the child was to be an alpha by a series of esoteric tests using urine, animal entrails and specific glass vials and metal bowls to make those predictions.

It would be useful, Stiles thought, to see him to see if he could help decipher if Stiles had missed two of his courses because he was with child, a possibility as he enjoyed sex with his husband, often and with experimentation, but there were so many other possibilities, and if he knew specifically then it would be one less thing to fret over. “Would you know how to arrange a meeting with him?”

“The piss prophet?” she asked, “she’s my mother, I’m sure I can.”


	36. Chapter 36

The morning of Kate’s trial started cold and clear with a fresh dusting of snow, and Stiles turning over in bed with what felt like a light tickle and quickly turned into a crackling sore throaty cough. The achy not quite right feeling of the days before had solidified into the start of an epic cold. Derek rubbed his back, and patted him on the head and gave him a piece of linen to cough into. However, whilst Stiles was visiting the chamber pot - the piss prophet had demanded his first urination of the day to make her divinations from - Derek did go to the apothecary for him and somehow managed to express that he needed a linctus for a cough and some goose fat set with herbs for the treatment of a cold, even if wasn't quite one yet. It reassured Stiles that Derek was thinking of him even if the linctus, which had the consistency of frog spawn was the weird combination of mallow root and thyme.

It did help with the cough but clearly the gods were veangeful if they demanded the taste as a price.

Lydia helped Stiles wash and dress, telling him that this would be her duty as Lady Parrish, and first of Stiles’ own court, but Stiles felt so wretched he just let her. Rather than the usual surcoat she pulled a thick wool doublet over his cotehardie to keep his chest warm, one which had a high collar, and from a wooden chest she took a dark coloured wig. It was most likely horse hair and would not stand up to close scrutiny but when she fixed it to what hair he had left after what Kate had done, and fixed a veil over it, it looked, at least unless someone was very close, that he had his hair back.

“Vidama Mildred has a face like a shoe," Lydia said as she arranged Stiles' veil, being herself unmarried she wore her hair uncovered. Once Stiles considered it he was forced to concede Lydia's point - with her narrow slitted eyes and large open mouth she did look rather like a shoe viewed from above, “you should give no credence to what she says.”

“She called me a skinny boy in a frock.” Stiles pointed out.

“You are a male omega," Lydia said, “and you still have better tits than her. Pay no attention to the woman who looks like a shoe, her husband has stepped out with every serving maid who will have him, because her manner is as shrewish as her face is shoeish." Stiles’ bark of laughter caused him to double up coughing. “Now we will go down to breakfast with his grace, and then we shall see the bitch hang for what she has done.”

It seemed unfair but rank mattered at the bishop's court, and Stiles had married one of the king's favourite lords, but the hierarchy of Scotland's rule was more complicated than that of England or Brittany. Instead of the ranks of bishops, earls, barons and then lords and knights there were lords but some lords were higher ranked than others. Stiles had married well, certainly much higher than his status as an omega should have earned him. So he was seated at the high table next to the bishop himself. Derek had absented himself, and Stiles did not know why, but Lydia, who sat with her parents, was much further away from the high table than he would have thought her, considering that her mother was the bishop's piss prophet. 

Parrish and Boyd, carefully keeping an eye on Stiles, were halfway between the two, sharing bread and cheese as Boyd grinned at one of the pretty women of the court, who was neither as elevated as Stiles or as far down the ranks as Lydia.

“Good man your lord," the bishop said to Stiles shoving a roasted pigeon at him, “eat up," Stiles went to speak but instead ending up coughing. “Don't you get sick, can't stand people being sick around me," he waved over one of the servants and asked for honeyed sack that it might ease his throat.

“Sorry, your grace, I've had a hard few weeks that as soon as I settled what sickness followed me caught me." The maid brought him a metal ewer full of sweetened white wine which he poured into a cup for him. “I do not hope to share it.”

“Sharing is a virtue," saying that Finstock sounded like a bishop, “but in this case no one will mind if you keep it to yourself, now you be careful, you don't want you getting agitated and losing the baby.”

“I am yet unsure if I am with child, your grace," Stiles told him, sipping the wine which was too sweet for his taste but the honey did soothe his throat so it almost felt bearable, “but I will certainly take your advice into consideration. I did ask Mistress Natalie to investigate but she is yet to get back to me.”

Finstock nodded, then shouted for Natalie to come up to the main table, still pushing the pigeon across to Stiles, with the basket of soft white bread and the hard white cheese. “You," he said to her, “is he bound?” he asked her using the coarsest slang, “about to enter confinement, out of use for the next several months?”

“Your grace?” Natalie asked. She had the same fine featured prettiness as her daughter but her hair was more of a reddish brown than a brownish orange. She clearly had no idea what the bishop was talking about.

“Is he with child?” the bishop enunciated the words, “am I about to lose my best hunter to care for his new bride and pups?”

“Yes, your grace," she said bluntly, “the heir will be due in late summer.” She bowed her head, "I had hoped to visit him in private in regards this news, as it is still very early and so early pregnancies are fragile.”

“Nonsense," Finstock said slamming down his fist on the table, “now you, boy, eat," the pigeon was passed across again, “and you go do whatever it is you do.”

Stiles took another mouthful of the wine, letting it coat his throat before he finally accepted the pigeon. He was with child, doing his duty, had a new life bound within him. He also had no idea how to process it. He would consider it later, he decided, chewing on the meat of the bird’s breast although he did not taste it. He would make sure Kate was dealt with first.

 

The bishop's hall was cleared away after breakfast and the bishop installed himself and Stiles by the fire, making sure Stiles was placed on cushions as if he was fragile muttering about protecting the investment of his best hunter as a blanket was tucked around his knee but Stiles wondered if it had more to do with his cold than his supposed pregnancy.

When the bishop was ready, settled down with a honeyed tisane everything was prepared for Kate’s trial.

Derek was summoned from the stables where he was exercising the dogs, he had taken them for a long ride through the bishop's land, so they were happy to move over towards Stiles when they saw him and collapse at his feet in front of the fire.

Kate was taken from the cells and she had been treated like a prisoner Stiles could see straight away, the finery she had been captured in, which had been stolen, was stripped from her and she wore a penitent’s smock of coarse goats wool, and he hair had been cut away like Stiles's own but she had no Lydia to secure a wig for her, and the side of her face was swollen, one eye being fused shut and dark purple with bruising. Those who had come to see the bishop hold court were gathered around the sides of the hall, in little clusters.

“Katherine Argent." The bishop said, “you stand accused of witchcraft, ensorcellment, adultery and murder, how do you plead?” He asked her.

“Not guilty your honour, I am a victim wrongly accused. I was the unwilling victim of Lord Hale's attentions, and when the king forced him to marry his new bride was jealous of his attentions to me, he engineered that I would be sent to marry young McCall who when he heard of my plea raised arms against his lord, but I told him not to, I did, your grace, I did, I told him not to.”

Finstock raised an eyebrow, “you," he said to Natalie, “she claimed the belly, is she?”

“Yes, your grace," Natalie said. “She conceived this summer past, perhaps August at the latest.”

Stiles felt like his world had been cut out from under him. “It can't be Lord Hale’s," one of the lord's said from the side of the room, “he was a guest at my manor to the south this past summer. There was a particularly cruel bunch of raiders that harried my shores, and it was Lord Hale and his men that drove them off, to do so he used my manor as a place to restock, he could not have been with her in August.”

“Could he have returned to his own lands to lie with her?” The bishop asked.

"No, your grace," the lord said, “his lands are ten days ride or more from mine, and he was never absent for so long, it would be the best part of a month's travel to go there and back if the weather was with him and no harm befell his horse. He also asked permission that my war dog be used as stud for the only bitch among his dogs. She would have recently whelped if it was successful?” he left it open as a question and Stiles nodded to say that yes, the pups had been recently born. “Then on my honour Lord Hale could not be the babe’s father, and if she has lied about the father then it is likely that she has lied about that then she has lied about him visiting her bed entire, not just against her will.”

“Then Katherine Argent you are an adulteress." The bishop said, “for that the punishment is that you would be given to a convent for a life of meditation, I am told that that is what your lord's new bride suggested.”

"I did, your grace," Stiles said.

The bishop nodded as he considered it.

“Your grace," Kate cut him off, “it is well known that Lord Hale is mute, and he relies on others to speak for him, we cannot trust that the will of the omega is the will of the lord.”

“My lord questioned my decision, your grace," Stiles said, “he thought I was jealous of her for he paid her no mind and knew nothing of her cruelties of the staff, of the funds from the manor that she embezzled in her greed, he thought that marrying her off would remove her from my sight and thus my supposed jealousy.” The bishop muttered something under his breath, and waited when Stiles stopped talking to cough. 

“Wait," Derek said stepping forward. “Law," he added. The days spent in Gwynfaolain learning to read and increasing his vocabulary were showing now. The bishop gestured that he had the right to speak. “Words hard," he said, “no words." Stiles hated to see him struggle but he could not speak for him, when Kate had accused him of putting words in Derek's mouth already.

Derek smiled, and it was a wolfish grin, a victor's mocking, raised his tunic and undid the flies of his pants, before pushing them down, baring himself and this thighs to the court, and although his shirt covered most of his genitals the healing wound on his leg was clear. “Kate." He said and pointed to it.

“Are you saying, Lord Hale, that you were wounded directly by Mistress Katherine?” The bishop said the words carefully, and Stiles wasn't sure why he was being so specific.

“Yes.” Derek said and it was a triumph to him, it was apparent in each and every intonation and the way he stood. He was a victor and he knew it.

“Then I have no recourse, the law is absolute," the bishop said, “Katherine Argent you will be taken from this place to a convent where you will complete your pregnancy in a place of contemplation, then the child be taken from you and given to a nurse where it will be given to your brother for him to raise as he sees fit, but once the babe is born you shall be taken and hung.”

“But," Kate protested, “I am a victim here.”

“No," Peter said from the back of the hall. “We cannot prove that you poisoned Laura, or Harris, but their deaths were coincidental, and clearly ordered by your father, for which he is also being tried, the wealth from the Hale house you funneled to your father in Edinburgh is being weighed against him as well, but you raised a blade against your liege lord and did him harm. There are many here who were witness to it, and not just my Lord's knights. Mistress McCall as well witnessed it, the sentence is death, and none will come to save you, for your father will almost certainly lose his head by day’s end." Peter smiled under his hood, when he did so he kept his teeth covered broken as they were by her father’s perfidy. “But your child need not suffer for her mother’s sins.”

Kate seemed to realise that she had no recourse, there was no way back from this, her plan to present herself as a victim was undone by someone she had never met, let forth a torrent of curses so vile that Natalie clapped her hands over her daughter’s ears for fear she might hear them, and Vidama Mildred went white.

“Your grace,” Stiles protested, “there are accusations she is a witch, she seeks to call down the devil upon your house.”

“Cut out her tongue," the bishop said, “and take her to the convent, I am certain of her guilt. When the child is born bring it to her brother, he is clearly adopted being the only member of her family worth knowing, fine young hunter is Christophe Argent, surprising for an omega. Lord Hale," he looked across at Derek, “pull up your damn pants," Derek seemed at last to realise that he had mostly exposed himself, and struggled to pull them up and cover himself, but being so flustered made him fumble fingered, “make a list of the funds she stole, I’m convinced she has, and her family will make restitution.”

Stiles started to cough, the smoke from the fire and the hot dry air exacerbating his cough, “she has cursed him" someone shouted at the same time that he fumbled at his waist for the linctus that he had been given to ease his cough. “She is a witch.”

“One last defence, Kate," Peter said, “repent and the bishop will not burn you as a witch.”

Kate spat on the floor in reaction.

“When the babe is born," the bishop said, “if it bears mark that the lord of darkness is it's father, throw it to the ground and dash it’s brains out.” Kate did not seem horrified by what the bishop said although Stiles himself splayed his fingers over his belly, “and it may burn with her. Pray your pregnancy is long, witch," he said and his tone wasl ike ice, “because it is all that saves your worthless hide for now. I cannot punish the soul bound within you, or I would have the skin flayed from your back where you stand.” He turned to one of his servants, “enough of this slop," he said about the tisane he had been drinking, “bring me some spirits, I am not nearly drunk enough for this shit early in the day, and it's already too damn late to hunting, and, God's wounds, Hale, put your damn pintle away already before you’re accused of getting even more members of my court bound up.”


	37. Chapter 37

Stiles rolled over in the warm cavern of the bed he shared with his husband and just listened to Derek snore. It was a firm, distinct noise, stronger than Stiles own rattling chest, but it made him feel safe. 

The maid would be in soon to open the curtains and help Stiles dress, but he liked these moments where Derek wasn't awake yet. It was a small window of opportunity, hoping it would last longer, but it never did. There were so many things which could end it, not least of which the growing pressure of his bladder, but the nest was warm, and he was comfortable.

Derek liked to hold him as he slept, nudging Stiles into the crook of his armpit so his head was resting in the notch of his shoulder, with Derek sprawled on his back, his hand on Stiles’ waist and Stiles, who was a restless sleeper who, according to Keziah, kicked kept tucked up against him.

But with his hand splayed against Derek's bare chest, at best he could be coaxed into linen pants, never into a sleep shirt, Stiles felt his heartbeat in his palm.

Since he had left Edinburgh, no since the queen had come to tell him he was to be married everything had happened so fast. Within three days of being told Parrish was there as his husband's proxy and then they were on their way to Dubhfaolain and with the manor's state and Kate the period before Derek appeared had rushed by so fast, and then before he knew it he was in Kate’s clutches in Gwynfaolain and then here, and now there was a baby coming too.

He just needed time to breathe.

Unfortunately having a stinking cold did not help, and he felt a tickle that turned into an inability to breathe until he was almost choking from trying to hold it back, and wished Derek was wearing a shirt so he could cough into it and not spray spit and the lord alone knew what all over his husband, but Derek, still half asleep, just rubbed his back throughout the spasm, until it had passed, and then reached out through the bed curtains until he found a cup, that he had brought ot bed with him, just cold water, and passed it to Stiles.

“I think I need more of the linctus." Stiles told him. 

Derek just took the cup back and put it back on the table. "It is just a head cold, and certainly nothing to worry about.”

Derek grinned at him, it was all teeth that glinted in the poor light that fell through the curtains. “I’m sick," Stiles protested, “you’ll get sick too.” Derek's grin suggested he felt that he was immune, and far too healthy to be troubled with something as silly as a head cold. “You've done your worst with me," Stiles teased him, “I’m already bound up, it's not going to give me twins, and all it’s going to give you is a stuffy nose.” Stiles himself had a piece of linen tucked into the cuff of his night shirt for the sole purpose of blowing his nose.

“True?” Derek asked, rolling over so he was on his side facing Stiles. “True?” He was as eager as a puppy.

“Lydia, the girl who is to marry Parrish, her mother is the bishop's piss prophet and she says I am, and I saw the apothecary because it's early and there are things you can do to help, teas to drink, and with the thing with Kate any little is more than nothing, so, I thought I'd, well, I am carrying the next Hale heir.”

Derek, ignoring the mess of Stiles' face, and how his entire body felt like it was covered in snot, which had, over night formed a crust, which was, now he was moving starting to crack away in hardened flakes, kissed him, then got out of the bed and got the softened goosefat, beeswax and herbs to rub into his cracked lips.

Derek had, clearly, had a lot of bad colds in his time, he knew exactly what to do to treat one, measuring out a spoon of the linctus for him as well, before he offered him the water to help remove the taste from his mouth. 

When the maid did arrive to open the shutters and build the fire in the grate Stiles had already laid out clothes for the day, scrubbed his teeth with salt and sage on a rough cloth and Derek, dressed, had gone to request a special breakfast for him. Instead of the usual girl it was Lydia, who had come to dress him.

"I have gossip," she said, putting a pot of peppermint tea on the trivet over the fireplace, and adding shaved straw, taken from old mattresses, to the fire so it would slowly grow without overwhelming it, “apparently the king has beheaded Gerard Argent for conspiring against him, his son,” Lydia let that sink in before she continued, “gave him up in exchange for promises of protection for his daughter. The king chose to be merciful and let Argent keep his lands, so it seems Lord Peter was a little conservative in his estimate of the King's timetable. I suspect that he started moving into position around the same time you left Edinburgh.”

“Exile?” Stiles asked. He had thought Lydia had suggested beheading but that was so rarely done to nobles.

"No, he cut his head right off, so by the time Kate was screaming her father would come for her he was already dead.” Lydia was scandalised by it, “by the rood, what a time we live in.”

Stiles dipped his fingers back into the grease to ease the tightness of his lips, and swiped a little around the raw skin around his nose to ease it. “I’m just glad it’s over.”

“The bishop had her tongue and eyes put out last night," Lydia said, “and as soon as she is deemed healed enough to travel she’ll be taken the convent. Of course everyone is talking about what happened at the trial. They know why you're so devoted, and why they call him the Hale beast.” she said wagging her eyebrows to tease him, “it's no wonder you’re bound.”

“Lydia!” he said, scandalised, “you are a maiden, you're not supposed to know about these things.”

“Did you?” She asked, “because I am sure that you did as part of the queen's court? The ladies of the bishop’s are just as honest, and your lord’s thighs are the envy of my mother and her companions. Apparently I might have had more siblings if my father shared such magnificent legs. Of course, my Jordan's have much less girth, but he has his uses.”

“You are wicked,” Stiles said, “but truly his ass is finer than his thighs, but that I alone get to see," he paused, “unless someone was to tell him that Liam saw my hair down when he was on the privy, then he’d not bother to pull up his pants chasing the boy down.”

A slow smile slid across Lydia's face. 

“You are wicked, Lydia Martin," he said with a smile, “but it might not apply now, at least until my hair grows back. He is very enamored of my hair, or he was.”

“You are young and healthy," Lydia told him, “it will grow back soon enough, by the time this one comes along,” her eyes flicked to his stomach, “it will be at your shoulders, don't worry so.”

"I’m just a skinny boy in a dress,” Stiles said, “he liked my hair, finding excuses to touch it, or undo the lacings.”

“You are one of the prize omega of the king's court, given to one of his most highly respected, well feared, lords, you are a catch, and like your name suggests, a miracle. Now, you are going to put this dress on, the one with the gold trim, and this surcoat, and then that wig, and you are going to go down and make nice with the bishop's court until you have to go back to your own manor after twelfth night. You are the mari of Lord Theodoric, the Hale beast, and you are carrying his heir. You are the one he has chosen to be his voice instead of Parrish, you are far more than a skinny boy in a dress.”

The dress that Lydia had chosen for him to wear had lacing at the sides to better cinch to his waist, such as it was, and the gold laces she used would look best with his colouring and the dress’ deep red. “And if I have to tell you that every morning of the rest of our lives I will. Now, do you want the leather diadem or the copper one?”

And that, Stiles was to learn, was that.


	38. Chapter 38

The Hale heir was born in late summer, with the Hale lord himself sent out to busy himself as he kept growling at the midwife every time his omega showed even a twinge of pain, which included a foot cramp.

Two of his knights, Boyd and Parrish, had had to physically remove him whilst his omega tried to reassure him that this was normal and he was not to worry, that he was strong and this would almost be certainly be done by morning.

Now, on Twelfth Night she was fascinated by the holly berries on the shelf above the table upon which her basket had been placed and was trying, and failing, to lever herself up off her bed of furs and blankets to put them in her mouth.

Stiles was not worried because she had only just mastered rolling over by herself and even then seemed surprised that she had done so, so mostly she was reaching out and making ahh ahh noises to attract the attention of either her omega parent, her Tata, or her nurse, Ellspeth.

Elspeth’s child was a few days past her first birthday, and was in a sling on her mother’s back whilst Elspeth helped with the kitchen work.

Rymenhild Hale, named by her papa for the princess in the story that her Tata had read to him, but mostly called Little Lady or Hilde, was unaware of the bustle around her as everyone tried to get the feast ready, mostly she was warm, comfortable and determined to grab the holly.

Stiles, noticing his daughter’s determination, laughed as he picked her up, resting her head against his shoulder, “just like your papa, aren’t you?” he asked her, before tucking her into the sling he wore on his chest. He liked to keep her kissing close, but she got heavy and so there was the basket.

Derek hunted almost religiously for the first few weeks of her life until she had a bevy of furs, softly tanned, and the local rabbit population was almost wiped out, and there were barrels of brined and dried rabbit meat to try and use up, but nothing was too good for his little girl, and when Stiles placed her on the large fur by the fire, just in her napkin and cap, Bronagh would raise herself up and pad over before sitting back down between the baby and the fire, just in case, but mostly it just meant that Hilde grabbed dribble covered handfuls of fur and made her ahh ahh noises.

Derek had suggested that she talked as much as Stiles did, and would sweep her up when he saw she was awake, amazed at how small she was, and how complete, and the soft high points of her little alpha ears. Even though she was a baby, plump and gummy and often drooling, she wore a little bracelet of amber beads around her pudgy ankle that delighted her when it rattled. It had been something from the stores of things Derek had brought back from his travels, and Stiles was looking forward to hearing Derek tell his daughter about the places he had been, but he was not confident enough in his words to do it yet.

Lydia had proven to be a wonder for that as she refused to interact with him unless he spoke in complete sentences, and if he got angry and non-verbal she would not talk to him, she would pick up what she was doing and walk away, which annoyed him because Parrish clearly adored her and she was Stiles’ closest friend, and even Peter flirted with her, so he wanted to as well, but he couldn’t, but if he struggled she was patient. She just wouldn't let him lose his temper and bully her into doing what he wanted.

So he practised talking, using two word sentences at first, until he became more confident. It was taking time but he was improving, until he got frustrated and angry and the words fell away from him. It helped that Lydia also spoke both French and latin so when he got frustrated in one she would prod him in the other, and between her and Peter Stiles’ found running the manor to be a pleasure and not a terrible chore, and under their rule Dubhfaolain was becoming beautiful.

And Stiles had learned that maybe the queen was right when she had visited him the November before, that she had given him a gift, it had just taken him a long time to understand that, and dropping a quick kiss on Hilde’s head as she made noise and dribbled on his apron, because she was not quite teething but everyone agreed it would be any time now, he knew he was happy.

Derek made him happy, Hilde made him happy, Dubhfaolain made him happy.

What more could he ask for when God had given him everything he had.

Liam would be tonight’s Lord of Misrule, because Hilde was so young Elspeth as Hilde’s nurse would be excluded from the festivities, so someone was watching the baby and it would be the first time Stiles had left her alone all night. She would be in the same house but as Lord Stiles was expected to be part of the feast, and he knew that Elspeth would come fetch him if he was needed, and he knew that Keziah would be back and forth checking on them, and Bronagh and her brood of long legged monsters, they weren't puppies, they were bumbling chewing beasts who had yet to learn good manners, which everyone explained they would grow out of, would be watching over her, but he still worried.

When Bronagh lay with Hilde on the floor her pups, would do things to make the baby laugh, and she had a deep belly chuckle, like lick at her feet as she kicked them away, or dance just out of reach of her grabbing little hands, and Stiles knew she would grow up with them, not like her papa had, but knowing that she had pack to protect her.

Derek came into the kitchen, possibly hoping to find something cooked to steal, whilst Cook teased him and laughed like a game between them, saw Stiles, and ignored that he was stuffing breadcrumbs and herbs, with butter, into the cavity of some of the pheasants that Derek had caught and hung earlier in the month. The feathers had gone to play with Hilde. He beamed at the two of them, and Stiles hoped Lydia never taught him to hide his emotions, and walked over, kissing Stiles on the temple, before dropping a quick kiss on Hilde’s head as she reached for him and made little noises ending on a spit bubble. Stiles stepped back from the table so Derek could reach into the sling and take her. 

“She’s very energetic today,” he told his husband, as he kissed her on the head, where she was in Derek's arms and grabbing at his beard. “I think she’ excited for the feast.” Derek just rubbed his nose into the soft dark fuzz on Hilde's head. She had taken to taking off any cap put on her and throwing it on the floor and cackling, so in the warm kitchen Stiles let it stay off. Elspeth’s little boy was much better behaved, he just sucked on his fist and slept as much as Stiles could see, but Elspeth reassured him that he just liked being carried around, when she placed him down he was a terror, able to take unsteady steps, often after Bronagh, who would pick him up by his tunic between her teeth if he walked too far from what she thought to be a safe place for them.

A year ago Stiles had been in the bishop's palace, reeling from the Argent fiasco, and had someone told him that he would be stood here now, happy, preparing for misrule night he would have thought them crazy, but he was happy, he had Derek and he had Hilde and Dubhfaolain and everything was well.


End file.
